*ma 


The  Fugitive 


The   Fugitive 

"Being"  Memoirs  of  a  W^anderer 
in    Search    of  a    Home 


'Tribes  of  the  wandering  foot  and  weary  breast. 
How  shall  ye  flee  away  and  be  at  rest  !  " 

— BYRON 


BY 

EZRA  S.  BRUDNO 


NEW   YORK 

Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
1904 


Copyright,  1904,  by 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Company 
Published,  February  15,  1904 


TO 

SDc.  Cmil  9£ 

THIS      BOOK      IS 

MOST      AFFECTIONATELY 

DEDICATED 


S134453 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  THE   FIRST— DARKNESS 

CHAPTER 

I.  I  Lose  My  Father  .... 

II.  I  Am  Left  Alone  in  the  World      . 

III.  The  School  for  the  Poor 

IV.  The  Ways  of  the  Talmud-Torah  . 
V.  "The  Lithuanian  Era" 

VI.  A  Night  in  a  Forest      . 

VII.  I   Fall   Among   Gentiles 

VIII.  I   Am   Happy        .... 

IX.  The   End   of   Happiness 

X.  I  Bid  Farewell  to  Zamok 

XL  The   Mystery    Revealed 

XII.  Back  to   My   Own 

XIII.  The    Yeshiva          .... 

XIV.  My  New  Home      .... 
XV.  The    "Sha" 

XVI.  The    Reawakening 

XVII.  I   Begin  to   Doubt 

XVIII.  I  Am  Betrayed      . 

XIX.  I  Wander  Again     .... 

XX.  I  Become  a  Teacher 

XXI.  I  Find  My  Duties  Very  Agreeable 

vii 


viii  Contents — Continued 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.  A  Proposal  of  Marriage        .         .         .     149 

XXIII.  The  Bridegroom 156 

XXIV.  Father   Against    Child    .  .160 
XXV.     "Yom  Kippur" 163 

XXVI.  A  Tragedy  Without  Bloodshed      .         .172 

BOOK  THE   SECOND— LIGHT 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  "Lithuanian  Jerusalem"                 .         .     183 

II.  My  Second  Birth    .         .         .         .         .191 

III.  A  Rose  With  a  Thorn     .         .  .     197 

IV.  "  Russian  Jerusalem  "     ....     203 
V.  I  See  Without  Being  Seen      .         .         .     209 

VI.  Cupid's  Arrows      .         .         .         .         .213 

VII.     A  Great  Event 222 

VIII.  Love  Conquers  Discretion      .         .         .229 

IX.  I  Bend  to  the  Cross      ....     236 

X.  The  Burden  of  the  Cross       .         .         .239 

XI.  On  My  Way  to  Nazareth      .         .         .     247 

XII.     A  Reaction 256 

XIII.  I  Bid  Farewell  to  My  Fatherland    .         .     266 

BOOK   THE    THIRD— LIBERTY 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  In  the  Land  of  Liberty    .         .         .         -273 

II.  Shmunke  Menke  Shmunke's  .         .         .     290 

III.  I  Look  for  a  Job     .....     298 

IV.  In  a  "Sweat-Shop"       .         .         .         .307 


Contents — Continued  ix 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

V.  The  End  of  the  Sweat-Shop    .         .         .318 

VI.  I  Apply  for  Aid  and  Get  Something  Else     321 

VII.     An  Old  Friend 334 

VIII.  Assistance  Comes  Unexpectedly     .         .342 

IX.  The  Missionary  Again     .         .         ,         -350 

X.  A  Chat  With  the  Missionary        .         .     356 

XI.  An  Old  Friend  Again     .         .         .         .363 

XII.  The  World  is   Quite   Small,   After  All     372 

XIII.  "The  Voice  of  My  Beloved"       .         .     375 

XIV.  The  End  of  Two  Lives        .         .         .380 
XV.  The   Last   Glimpse         ....     389 


SCENES 

Book  I. — LITHUANIA 

Book  II. — SOUTHERN  RUSSIA 

Book  III. — NEW  YORK 

PRINCIPAL  CHARACTERS 

YUDEL  ABRAMOWITCH,  a  Jew  accused  of  having  mur- 
dered a  Christian  child  for  ritual  purposes 

ISRAEL,  his  son,  a  vagrant  orphan,  the  "Fugitive" 

GORGLE  and  GAZLEN,  schoolmasters  of  the  school  for 
the  poor 

ALEXIS  BIALNICK,  a  judge 

KATIA,  the  judge's  daughter,  with  whom  Israel  is  in 
love 

SHMUNKE  MENKE  SHMUNKE'S,  a  fanatic  student  of 
theology 

MENKE  and  GROONE,  Shmunke  Menke  Shmunke's 
parents 

RABBI  BRILL,  principal  of  Javolin  Seminary 

MIRIAM,  his  young  wife 

EPHRAIM  RAZOVSKI,  an  idealist  and  revolutionary 
student 

NOSEN  TARIFF,  an  innkeeper 

MALKE,  his  daughter 

xi 


xii  Principal  Characters — Continued 

COUNT  LOSJINSKI,  owner  of  the  inn 

ADOLPH  DOLGOFF,  a  forger  of  Russian  pamphlets 

DAVID  LEVANDO,  owner  of  a  "sweat-shop" 

DANIEL,  his  son 

MARK  FETTER,  an  unscrupulous  New  York  merchant 

DOCTOR  FUCHS,  a  reform  rabbi 

JOSEPH  GAVNIACK,  a  hypocritical  missionary 

MARTHA,  his  mistress 


BOOK    THE     FIRST 
DARKNESS 


"  He  hath  set  me  in  dark  places,  as  they 
that  be  dead  of  old." 

—LAMENTATIONS. 


THE    FUGITIVE 

CHAPTER  I 
I    LOSE   MY    FATHER 

AS  I  dip  my  pen  to  begin  the  narrative  of 
my  life,  the  heavy  curtain  of  time  rises 
and  scenes  of  early  childhood  crowd  my 
memory.  I  am  back  again  in  far-away  Lithuania; 
and  I  see,  as  clearly  as  the  paper  before  me, 
my  native  town  with  all  its  rural  squalor.  It  is 
one  of  the  commonplace,  insignificant  Lithuanian 
towns:  with  thatched  log-houses  set  along  unpaved 
muddy  streets  and  stenchy  alleys;  with  a  weather- 
worn brick  synagogue  and  a  high-peaked  old  Greek 
church;  with  a  ruinous  public  bath-house  and  a 
well-fortified  jail;  with  a  pond  in  which  boys  and 
cows  alternately  bathe  in  summer  and  on  which 
the  former  skate  in  winter;  with  a  tall  black  cross 
standing  somberly  in  the  centre  of  the  market- 
place ;  with  a  hissing  water-mill  (which  is  regularly 
flooded  every  spring)  at  one  end  of  the  town,  and 
a  long-armed  windmill  (which  almost  as  regularly 
burns  down  every  winter)  at  the  other  end;  with 
encompassing  bluish-green  forests,  waving  wheat- 
fields,  and  blossoming  orchards — in  short,  but  for 
the  last,  old,  dirty,  lethargic,  typically  Lithuanian. 

3 


4  The  Fugitive 

However,  as  a  hint  to  lovers  of  chronological 
research,  I  shall  state  that  in  the  place  where  I  first 
saw  light,  the  famous  Corsican,  in  his  escape  from 
cold  Russia,  is  said  to  have  changed  horses.  So, 
after  all,  my  native  town  deserves  a  place  in  the 
world's  history  almost  as  important  as  that  accorded 
to  Austerlitz.  For  if  chance  had  ordained  other- 
wise and  the  great  conqueror  had  not  found  speedy 
trotters  in  my  birthplace,  think  what  a  change  in 
the  nineteenth  century ! 

But  enough  of  the  Corsican.  Let  me  return  to 
the  Lithuanian,  however  disparaging  to  the  warrior. 
As  the  reader  will  presently  learn,  my  name,  Yisroel 
(the  Hebrew  for  Israel),  had  many  variations.  Its 
diminutive  was  Ishrolke,  which  for  convenience 
sake  was  shortened  to  Shrolke.  This  my  school- 
mates thought  still  too  long,  so  my  name  among 
them  was  Shroll.  Frequently  I  was  endearingly 
called  Yisroltchikle,  Isroltchick,  or  Isrolkele. 

Recalling  this  little  old  town  and  the  names  by 
which  I  was  known  there,  the  past  bursts  before 
me  like  a  shell,  and  my  mind  fills  with  memorable 
events  of  my  early  life.  Some  of  these  events  are 
vague  and  fragmentary,  like  half -forgotten  dreams, 
and  others  stand  out  most  vividly,  as  if  they  had 
occurred  but  yesterday.  How  I  remember  the 
Passover  of  my  fifth  year !  It  appears  to  me  like 
a  cloud  with  a  silvery  seam. 

The  day  before  this  Passover  was  the  happiest  of 
my  childhood.  I  see  myself  standing  on  the  long, 


I  Lose  My  Father  5 

balustered  porch,  watching  a  bird  that  skipped  from 
poplar  to  poplar  in  front  of  my  father's  house. 
The  thick  ice  that  had  covered  the  earth  for  more 
than  five  months  had  almost  entirely  melted,  and 
was  flowing  in  broad  crystal  streams  and  bubbling 
beneath  a  fine  glacial  sheet  which  was  not  as  yet 
washed  away.  Here  and  there  the  bits  of  bare 
earth,  like  so  many  tiny  islands,  looked  black  and 
spongy,  and  were  slowly  drying  under  the  piercing 
glances  of  the  sun.  But  I  was  soon  lured  into  the 
house:  the  rattling  of  dishes  fell  on  my  ears  like 
sweet  music.  I  ran  into  the  kitchen.  All  the  dishes 
and  cooking  utensils  that  had  been  used  during  the 
year  were  carried  to  the  attic,  and  new  plates,  pots, 
and  pans,  which  had  laid  packed  in  hay  since  the 
preceding  Passover,  were  cleansed  and  polished. 
While  these  preparations  were  being  made  I  was 
running  about  the  house  in  boisterous  mirth,  and 
in  my  repeated  efforts  to  make  myself  useful  I 
broke  sundry  articles.  My  mother  scolded  softly, 
and,  smiling  all  the  while,  gently  removed  me  from 
the  servants'  way.  To  hide  my  embarrassment  I 
dipped  the  new  tumbler  into  the  "Passover  tank" 
and  swallowed  a  mouthful  of  the  delicious  "Pass- 
over water."  Then  my  father  appeared  in  the  door- 
way and  said:  "Come,  my  child;  I  have  something 
nice  for  you."  I  followed  him  to  the  adjoining 
room,  where  I  was  presented  with  an  Arba-Kanfas, 
the  fringes  of  which  my  father  had  taken  great 
delight  in  tying  in  the  traditional  knots  and  twists. 


6  The  Fugitive 

As  he  handed  me  this  "four-corner"  garment  he 
said  in  Hebrew:  "Wear  it  that  ye  may  remember, 
and  do  all  my  commandments  and  be  holy  unto 
your  God." 

Then  came  the  Seder — the  ceremony  of  the 
first  evening  of  Passover.  Our  dining-room  was 
illuminated  by  scores  of  candles  stuck  in  antique 
chandeliers  hung  from  the  ceiling.  At  the  head 
of  the  table  sat  my  father,  robed  in  a  white  shroud- 
like  garment,  leaning  on  his  left  arm  and  reading 
from  a  book.  An  embroidered  skull-cap  was  tilted 
on  the  back  of  his  head,  leaving  bare  his  high  and 
broad,  smooth  forehead;  and  his  genial  counte- 
nance was  beaming  with  good-humour  and  happi- 
ness as  he  glanced  at  his  small  family.  As  I  now 
think  of  it,  it  seems  to  me  that  I  could  read  his 
very  thoughts  as  he  passed  his  fingers  through  his 
black  beard:  "Behold,  thus  shall  man  be  blessed 
that  feareth  the  Lord." 

My  mother,  with  diamonds  twinkling  at  her  ears, 
read  the  Hagodo  (the  tale  of  Israel's  bondage  and 
exodus)  as  fast  as  she  could  in  order  to  catch  up 
with  father,  pausing  only  now  and  then  to  point 
out  to  me  the  illustrations  of  the  ten  plagues  and 
that  of  Pharaoh  sinking  into  the  sea.  At  the  sight 
of  these  pictures  I  clapped  my  hands  in  gleeful 
satisfaction  over  the  punishment  this  tyrant,  the 
oppressor  of  my  forefathers,  had  received  from  the 
mighty  hand  of  Jehovah. 

But   the   happiness   we   felt   was   not   unmixed; 


I  Lose  My  Father  7 

with  it  there  was  some  hidden  sorrow.  My  brother 
Joseph,  who  was  about  twelve  years  my  senior, 
was  absent  from  the  table.  There  had  always 
been  some  differences  between  my  father  and  him, 
and  of  late  the  breach  widened  on  account  of  my 
brother's  intimacy  with  the  Sledevatel,*  against 
whom  my  father  held  a  number  of  overdue  prom- 
issory notes.  However,  despite  the  rupture,  my 
mother  entertained  an  unspoken  hope  that  he  come 
home  this  night  to  join  in  the  Passover  feast;  and 
when,  later  in  the  evening,  there  came  a  sound  of 
steps  without,  she  rose  eagerly  and  whispered: 
"Joseph  is  coming." 

"It  is  not  Joseph's  step,"  my  father  answered 
gloomily. 

A  moment  later  the  door  opened  and  two  officers 
entered.  My  father  rose  and  saluted  them  in 
a  courteous  though  hesitating  manner.  "What 
brings  you  to  my  house  at  this  hour,  Feodor 
Ivanowitch?"  my  father  asked  of  the  superior 
officer. 

My  mother  trembled  perceptibly,  and  said  to  my 
father  in  an  undertone:  "Something  must  have 
happened  to  Joseph." 

"I  am  on  a  bad  errand  this  evening,"  was  the 
short  reply  of  the  gendarme,  given  with  a  look 
which  made  plain  that  it  was  not  my  brother  who 
was  the  occasion  of  the  visit. 

*  A  Russian  officer  filling  the  position  of  our  grand  jury  and 
that  of  the  coroner. 


8  The  Fugitive 

My  father  paled  at  the  glance.  Now  as  I  write 
I  can  see  him  before  me,  robed  in  a  loose  white 
shroud,  a  fearful  stare  in  his  shrewd  blue  eyes, 
his  right  hand  clutching  the  girdle  around  his  loins 
as  he  staggered  back  a  step  or  two.  I  clung  to  my 
mother's  skirt  and  looked  at  the  gendarmes  in 
trembling  fright. 

"Really,  Yudel  Abramowitch,"  said  the  superior 
of  the  two  gendarmes,  "it  is  the  most  unpleasant 
duty  of  my  life  to  be  compelled  to  read  an  indict- 
ment to  you."  And  he  turned  his  eyes  away  from 
my  father's. 

"An  indictment!  Against  me?"  my  father 
cried. 

My  mother  burst  into  tears  and  wrung  her  hands 
hysterically;  and  I,  though  comprehending  no  real 
cause  for  grief,  joined  in  her  wailing. 

The  officer  drew  a  writ  from  his  upturned  sleeve, 
and  after  reading  the  caption  and  legal  rigmarole 
he  recited  in  a  firm  voice:  "You,  Yudel  Abramo- 
witch, are  hereby  accused  and  must  answer  to  the 
charge  of  being  complicated  in  the  ritual  murder  of 
Andrew,  a  Christian  child." 

My  father  did  not  say  a  word;  he  raised  his  hand 
to  his  forehead  and  emitted  a  deep  groan.  A 
minute  or  more  of  silence  ensued,  during  which 
my  father  looked  as  if  he  were  struggling  to  regain 
his  wits.  He  cast  a  dazed,  helpless  glance  at 
mother,  then  at  me. 

The  gendarmes  interchanged  communicative  signs ; 


I  Lose  My  Father  9 

then  one  of  them  said  gruffly:  "Come,  you'll  have 
to  hurry!" 

My  father  fell  on  my  mother's  neck  and  wept 
bitterly,  and  after  pressing  me  to  his  breast  and 
wetting  my  cheeks  with  his  tearful  kisses,  he  raised 
his  hands  heavenward  and  cried:  "My  enemies 
have  set  a  trap  for  me,  but  the  Infallible  Judge 
knows  my  heart — knows  my  innocence.  He  will 
not  see  justice  perverted." 

The  officers  made  no  reply,  but  led  him  away 
bowed  and  sobbing.  And  all  that  night,  I  remem- 
ber, we  sat  there  beside  the  richly  spread  table,  I 
held  closely  in  my  mother's  arms  and  she  moaning 
convulsively  all  the  while. 

My  father  was  not  the  only  one  arrested  that  night. 
Nine  of  the  oldest  and  most  prominent  members 
of  the  Jewish  community  were  also  thrown  into 
jail  on  the  same  charge.  And  the  following  morn- 
ing the  startling  fact  was  learned  that  my  brother 
Joseph  and  a  peasant  who  had  once  been  my 
father's  coachman  were  the  prosecuting  witnesses. 
The  prima  facie  evidence  was  strong  enough  with- 
out their  testimony,  as  the  body  of  the  murdered 
child  had  been  found  hidden  in  the  ark  among  the 
Scrolls  of  the  Law.  Special  mass  was  held  a  number 
of  times,  and  fasts  were  proclaimed,  but  even  the 
most  hopeful  could  see  no  relief  for  my  father, 
since  his  own  flesh  and  blood  testified  against  him. 

Little  of  consequence  happened  immediately  after 
my  father's  imprisonment.  My  brother  never  came 


io  The  Fugitive 

back  to  us,  and  I  learned  from  our  servants  that 
he  was  living  with  the  Sledevatel  and  that  he  was 
going  to  be  baptised  and  marry  his  niece,  who  was 
reputed  one  of  the  handsomest  girls  in  our  vicinity. 
In  our  house  everything  looked  dreary  and  for- 
saken: my  mother  went  about  with  a  grief -stricken 
face,  the  servants  walked  on  tiptoe,  and  every- 
body who  visited  us  seemed  but  to  enhance  our 
sadness.  Our  most  frequent  visitor  was  Mr.  Nicho- 
laieff,  a  lawyer,  to  whom  my  mother  occasionally 
gave  a  roll  of  money,  which  he  would  pocket 
without  counting,  and  always  with  the  remark  that 
he  hoped  to  be  able  to  "  grease  the  officials'  paws." 

Months  rolled  by,  and  still  no  definite  time  was 
set  for  the  trial  of  the  prisoners.  The  prospects 
of  their  release  brightened,  however,  when  a  rumour 
started  that  my  brother  had  run  away  to  parts 
unknown.  A  fast  was  proclaimed,  and  the  lawyer, 
Nicholaieff,  got  another  big  roll  of  money  with 
which  to  "grease  the  officials'  paws."  Then,  when 
everything  looked  promising,  we  were  stricken 
down  with  the  report  that  my  father  had  been 
found  hanging  in  his  cell,  and,  what  was  still  more 
terrible,  that  he  had  left  a  written  confession  of 
his  sole  guilt. 

The  other  prisoners  were  instantly  released.  To 
us  who  still  believed  in  my  father's  innocence  the 
mystery  of  the  ritual  murder  became  darker  and 
darker;  and  the  bitterest  gloom  settled  closer  and 
closer  about  my  mother  and  me. 


CHAPTER  II 
I  AM  LEFT  ALONE  IN  THE  WORLD 

AFTER  this  tragic  end  of  my  father  a  great  and 
rapid  change  took  place  in  my  mother.  Her  noble 
Semitic  face  became  shrunken  and  sallow  and 
wrinkled,  and  her  soft  bright  eyes,  dimmed  with 
weeping,  lost  their  gentle  luster.  All  our  money 
and  valuables  had  gone  to  "grease  the  officials' 
paws,"  so  at  my  father's  death  we  were  literally 
penniless.  With  the  exception  of  our  large  house, 
which  was  heavily  encumbered,  every  possible 
means  to  maintain  our  previous  comfortable  style 
of  living  was  exhausted.  It  is  true,  the  community 
was  kind  enough  to  offer  her  some  assistance,  but 
she  cried  many  days  thereafter,  and  said  she  would 
rather  starve  than  become  an  object  of  charity. 
So  she  bought  a  cow  and  sold  its  milk,  and  in  order 
to  make  both  ends  meet,  from  time  to  time  my 
mother  sold  pieces  of  furniture  from  our  home. 

Thus  autumn  and  winter  passed  and  spring  came 
again.  I  was  kept  in  a  private  school,  at  the  cost 
of  how  much  self-denial  on  the  part  of  my  mother 
I  did  not  then  understand.  However,  I  noticed 
that  my  mother  grew  weaker  and  weaker  during 
this  time,  and  at  length  she  took  to  her  bed.  Then 

ii 


12  The  Fugitive 

there  came  an  evening  which  is  as  memorable  to 
me  as  the  evening  on  which  my  father  was  torn 
away  from  us.  The  sun  had  already  dipped  into 
the  forest  that  encircled  the  town;  the  stroke  of 
the  sexton's  mallet  had  just  sounded — the  signal 
for  "sunset  service";  and  the  shades  were  begin- 
ning to  fall.  I  stood  by  the  window  looking  out  into 
our  bit  of  a  garden;  from  behind  me  there  came 
frequently  the  coughs  and  groans  of  my  mother. 

"Yisroelke,  my  child,"  sounded  the  feeble  voice 
of  my  mother. 

I  turned  and  hurried  to  her  bed.  There  was 
scarcely  a  tinge  of  blood  in  her  emaciated  cheeks; 
her  dim  eyes  were  overrun  with  tears.  I  wondered 
why  she  shed  tears;  our  neighbours  had  been  so 
good  to  us — had  brought  us  every  morning  boiled 
chicken,  fresh  milk  and  flowers,  and  the  beautiful 
boxes  and  vials  that  stood  on  the  window-sill — 
and  yet  she  wept ! 

"Kiss  me,  my  darling,"  she  whispered. 

I  kissed  her  hand  first,  then  rising  on  tiptoe  I 
pressed  my  lips  to  her  chin,  which  was  moist  from 
her  weeping. 

"I  may  soon  go  away,"  she  said  with  an  effort, 
"and  you  will  be  left  alone — alone."  Her  spas- 
modic cough  checked  her  words. 

I  could  not  clearly  see  how  she  could  go  away 
when  she  was  scarcely  strong  enough  to  move 
about. 

Here,    my    child,"    she    resumed    painfully    a 


I  Am  Left  Alone  in  the  World  13 

moment  later,  handing  me  our  Old  Testament, 
dog-eared  and  yellow  with  age,  "keep  this  always 
with  you.  This  is  all  I  can  leave  you.  When  you 
get  older,  my  child,  you  will  read  it;  and  when 
despair  conies  to  you,  you  will  also  read  it  and 
gain  courage.  This  is  all  your  father  had  when  he 
started  in  life;  this  is  all  you  can  leave  to  your 
children,  and  this  is  all  they  will  leave  to  their  off- 
spring, to  the  end  of  the  race." 
.  A  peculiar  look  spread  over  my  mother's  counte- 
nance as  she  spoke  these  enigmatic  words ;  a  magic 
luster  seemed  to  brighten  her  dim  eyes. 

After  resting  a  little  while  she  continued  more 
easily,  as  if  the  words  she  had  just  spoken  had 
greatly  relieved  her,  "Yisroelke,  if  you  ever  meet 
your  brother" — there  was  a  painful  pause — 
"remind  him  of  this  book.  Let  him  read  these 
pages.  He  will  learn  that  there  is  nothing  to  be 
ashamed  of  in  his  lineage,  and  will  come  back  to 
our  fold." 

Early  the  next  morning  I  was  wakened  by  sob- 
bing and  wailing.  I  raised  my  head  and  glanced 
at  my  mother's  bed.  It  was  empty.  I  dressed 
in  haste  and  hurried  to  the  dining-room.  In  the 
middle  of  the  floor  lay  a  figure,  covered  with  my 
mother's  quilt.  Two  flaring  candles  stuck  in  our 
silver  candlesticks  stood  at  one  end  of  it.  Sitting 
on  the  floor  around  the  figure  were  several  women, 
who  constantly  raised  their  voices  in  lamentation; 
a  number  of  elderly  women  were  measuring  long 


14  The  Fugitive 

strips  of  linen  and  stitching  them  together;  and  a 
score  of  boys  chanted  psalms  in  a  monotonous 
minor  key. 

I  looked  bewilderingly  about  the  room.  Then, 
affected  rather  by  the  general  grief  than  by  any 
definite  realisation  of  its  cause,  I  burst  into  tears 
and  wept  bitterly. 

At  first  no  one  tried  to  console  me,  but  when 
the  women  had  finished  the  white  garment  an 
old  man  came  up  to  me  and  said:  "Stop  crying, 
Isroelchickle  [this  was  his  version  of  my  name], 
and  come  outside." 

Outside  there  was  also  a  crowd  of  people.  A 
little  man  moved  through  the  crowd  crying  "  Zdoko  ! 
Zdoko !"  at  the  highest  pitch  of  his  cracked  mezzo- 
soprano  voice,  at  the  same  time  shaking  a  tin  can 
that  contained  a  few  rattling  coppers.  "Zdoko! 
Zdoko!"  he  shrieked  persistently;  and  the  by- 
standers, as  he  passed  them,  dropped  coins  of  small 
value  into  the  contribution  box  that  he  shook 
beneath  their  faces. 

In  response  to  a  cry  at  the  door,  those  who  stood 
nearest  the  porch  crowded  back,  and  the  figure  I 
had  seen  lying  on  the  floor  was  carried  out.  But 
as  the  pall-bearers  were  going  to  lift  the  bier,  one 
of  the  elders  of  the  community  raised  his  hand  to 
command  attention,  and  said  in  a  grave  tone, 
"Rabaci  [my  superiors],  now  is  the  time  to  do 
something  for  the  orphan." 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  me.     I  tried  to  control 


I  Am  Left  Alone  in  the  World  15 

myself,  but  the  tears  continued  to  flow  against 
my  will. 

"To  the  best  of  my  knowledge,"  the  venerable 
man  continued,  "the  boy  has  no  relatives  in  whose 
care  we  can  place  him.  It  is  incumbent  upon  the 
community  to  do  all  it  can  for  him  until  he  is  old 
enough  to  provide  for  himself.  As  there  is  not  a 
penny  left  by  his  mother,  I  suggest  that  the  orphan 
be  right  now  supplied  with  'days.'  At  my  house 
he  will  have  Fridays  and  Saturdays." 

Within  a  few  minutes  Sundays,  Mondays,  Tues- 
days, Wednesdays,  and  Thursdays  had  been 
offered,  and  they  were  one  week. 

The  pall-bearers  lifted  their  burden  and  the 
procession  started.  A  long  train  of  men  and 
women  followed  the  bier  with  bowed  heads,  and  a 
great  number  of  boys  chanted  mournfully:  "Right- 
eousness walks  before  her."  Before  now  I  had 
vaguely  understood  on  what  journey  my  mother 
had  gone,  but  now  I  realised  that  she  had  gone 
never  to  return,  and  that  I  was  left  all  alone  in 
the  world. 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  SCHOOL  FOR  THE  POOR 

MY  people  were  very  ingenious  in  naming  things ; 
they  would  rarely  permit  themselves  to  call  a  spade 
a  spade.  For  instance,  the  custom  of  poor  boys 
getting  certain  meals  regularly  in  certain  well-to-do 
homes  was  called  "eating  days";  an  invitation  of 
a  poor  man  to  dine  with  his  rich  co-religionist  on 
the  holy  Sabbath  was  disguisedly  entitled  "plat" 
(a  corruption  of  "billet");  the  graveyard  was, 
perhaps  cynically,  spoken  of  as  the  "house  of  the 
living";  and  a  charitable  house  for  the  poor  was 
commonly  designated  as  the  Hekdesh  (sanctuary). 
So  when  "Jacob  the  Beadle"  came  up  to  me  a  few 
days  after  my  mother's  death  and  told  me  to  go 
with  him  to  the  Talmud-Torah,  I  understood  with- 
out a  moment's  hesitation  that  I  was  going  to  be 
enrolled,  not  in  a  theological  seminary,  as  the  name 
might  indicate,  but  in  the  school  for  the  poor. 

The  Beadle  had  a  quick  step,  and  I  toddled  along 
as  fast  as  I  could.  At  the  sight  of  the  ancient- 
looking,  weather-worn,  red-brick  synagogue,  with 
a  rickety  outside  staircase  that  led  to  the  women's 
chapel,  my  heart  began  to  throb  with  premonitory 
fear,  for  I  knew  that  the  women's  chapel  was 

16 


The  School  for  the  Poor  17 

also  the  Talmud-Torah.  We  pushed  our  way 
through  scores  of  ragged,  barefoot  boys  who  were 
rolling  in  the  sandy  yard  below  the  stairs,  and 
struggled  up  the  stairway  through  dozens  of  other 
little  wretches  who  laughed  and  shouted  as  they 
wrestled,  fought,  and  played  pranks  upon  each 
other. 

I  remained  standing  gloomily  just  within  the 
door  while  the  Beadle  carried  on  a  whispered  con- 
versation with  one  of  the  teachers,  who  all  the  time 
was  blinking  his  watery-blue  eyes  and  stretching 
his  neck,  like  a  goose  after  taking  a  mouthful  of 
water.  The  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was 
high  and  spacious,  but  was  most  slovenly  kept.  At 
each  end  stood  two  tallow-smeared  tables  placed  at 
right  angles,  and  upon  crippled  benches  beside  these 
sat  boys  of  all  ages  and  sizes,  their  heads  covered. 
Dog-eared  prayer-books  and  tattered  Bibles  were 
promiscuously  scattered  over  the  dirty  floor.  Coal- 
drawn  caricatures  and  sketches  disfigured  the  once 
whitewashed  walls,  now  brown  from  age  where  not 
black  from  charcoal;  and  wheels  of  spider-webs 
slightly  oscillated  around  the  corners.  The  odour 
of  mildew  was  almost  suffocating. 

His  talk  with  the  teacher  ended,  the  Beadle 
turned  to  me.  "This  will  be  your  school,  Isroel- 
chickle,"  he  said  kindly;  and  then  he  bade  me 
be  good  and  departed,  leaving  me  to  begin  my 
new  life. 

I  did  not  leave  my  place  by  the  door  where  he 


1 8  The  Fugitive 

had  left  me.  I  was  naturally  very  shy,  and  the 
appearance  of  this  schoolmaster  filled  me  with  fore- 
boding. So,  fearing  to  move,  I  stood  nervously 
against  the  wall,  waiting  till  I  was  told  to  take  a 
seat. 

"  Zalmen,  what  do  you  call  the  letter  with  a  head 
and  neck  of  a  goose  standing  on  one  leg?"  asked 
the  teacher,  continuing  with  the  lesson  which  our 
entry  had  interrupted.  His  name  was  Getzel,  but 
he  was  better  known  as  Gorgle  on  account  of  his 
habit  of  constantly  craning  his  "gorgle,"  which  is 
Yiddish  for  larynx. 

"A  lamed  [Hebrew  "1"  ],"  the  boy  nearest  him 
answered  in  a  small  piping,  tremulous  voice. 

"Find  one!"  ordered  Gorgle,  stretching  his  neck 
awkwardly  and  rolling  his  bulging  eyes  with  impa- 
tience. 

The  youngster  hesitated,  and  his  searching  eyes 
and  ringers  wandered  over  the  book  before  him. 
Finally  he  pointed  at  the  similitude  of  a  goose 
standing  on  one  leg. 

"And  what  do  you  call  the  one  like  a  worm  with 
little  wings?" 

"An  aleph,"  returned  the  boy. 

"Silence!  Silence!"  Gorgle  shouted,  aroused  by 
the  general  din,  and  rolled  his  eyes  threateningly. 

For  an  instant  my  attention  left  the  teacher  and 
fastened  upon  the  boys  around  the  nearest  table, 
who  were  showing  a  peculiar  interest  in  me.  Some 
were  rolling  their  eyes  and  projecting  their  lips, 


The  School  for  the  Poor  19 

others  were  thrusting  out  their  tongues,  and  still 
others  were  twisting  their  faces  into  all  sorts  of 
wry  designs. 

One  of  those  who  sat  farthest  away  from  the 
instructor,  taking  advantage  of  a  moment  when 
the  schoolmaster's  back  was  turned,  put  his  thumb 
to  the  point  of  his  snub  nose,  and  spreading  his 
fingers  in  the  shape  of  a  turkey's  tail  made  big  eyes 
at  me.  This  welcome  caught  the  notice  of  the 
class,  and  all  joined  in  a  sniffling,  mocking  chuckle. 

"Who  started  this  laughter?"  thundered  the 
stoop-shouldered,  red-bearded  schoolmaster,  turn- 
ing around  quickly.  He  looked  with  fierce  inquiry 
into  each  poverty-stamped  face. 

A  sudden  hush  fell  upon  the  pupils. 

"Who  started  this  giggling,  I  ask  you?"  repeated 
Gorgle,  picking  up  the  leather  thongs  that  lay  at 
his  elbow. 

The  silence  became  even  more  intense. 

"Who  laughed  first,  I  demand  of  you?"  he 
shouted  with  more  vehemence. 

The  little  wretches  turned  pale  and  trembled  with 
fright.  A  long-drawn  snore  broke  the  dreadful 
silence.  All  faces  turned  in  the  direction  of  the 
slumberer.  The  snub-nosed  boy  who  had  made 
fun  of  me  a  little  while  before  sat  with  his  head 
thrown  back,  the  visor  of  his  torn  cap  dangling 
loosely  alongside  his  right  ear,  his  hands  resting  on 
the  table  before  him,  and  snored  as  naturally  as  if 
he  were  dreaming  of  Jacob's  ladder. 


20  The  Fugitive 

The  teacher  descended  upon  the  offender  and 
furiously  swung  the  pliant  thongs  about  the  head, 
face,  and  hands  of  the  little  jester.  When  he  had 
so  exhausted  himself  that  he  could  flog  no  longer, 
he  threw  the  thongs  upon  the  table  and  collapsed 
in  his  chair,  ghastly  pale,  and  out  of  breath. 

His  stormy  eyes  lighted  upon  me.  "Why  are 
you  standing  there  like  a  clay  dummy?" 

Terrified  by  his  fierce  voice,  I  quickly  sat  down 
upon  the  edge  of  a  long  bench.  My  tears  once 
more  nearly  overflowed. 

Notwithstanding  the  severity  of  Gorgle's  punish- 
ment, the  snub-nosed  jester  was  not  yet  subdued. 
As  I  sank  trembling  upon  the  bench  he  looked  at 
me  and  bleated  like  a  young  sheep.  The  class, 
having  recovered  from  its  fright,  again  roared  with 
laughter.  The  schoolmaster  turned  white;  a  cloud 
seemed  to  overspread  his  hollowed  cheeks  and  fur- 
rowed forehead.  Like  an  enraged  cat  he  started 
for  the  wag,  but  as  he  raised  the  thongs  his  velvet 
skull-cap,  which  (as  I  was  afterward  informed)  had 
been  given  to  him  as  a  wedding-present  a  score  of 
years  before,  slipped  off  his  head  and  fell  to  the  floor. 
Another  laugh  broke  out  at  sight  of  the  glossy  pate 
of  the  master,  which  was  exposed  in  all  its  fullness 
as  he  stooped  to  recover  the  cap.  As  he  arose  the 
greasy  head-gear  dropped  from  his  nervous  hand, 
and  the  laughter  grew  more  uproarious.  "Snub- 
nose"  bleated  again,  another  pupil  mewed  like  a 
cat,  another  lowed  like  an  ox,  and  several  more 


The  School  for  the  Poor  21 

whistled  in  chorus  and  stamped  their  feet  while 
Gorgle's  head  was  moving  about  under  the  table  in 
search  of  his  wedding-present. 

The  schoolmaster  placed  his  recovered  cap  on  his 
head,  and  without  saying  a  word  he  motioned  the 
boys  on  one  of  the  benches  to  get  off  it  and  move 
it  aside.  The  miserable  culprit  divined  his  fate 
and  began  scratching  his  head  and  crying.  Still 
silent,  Gorgle  soaked  the  thongs  in  water  for  a  few 
minutes,  all  the  while  casting  revengeful  glances  at 
the  whining  little  fellow.  When  he  thought  the 
heavy  straps  soft  enough,  he  took  the  handle  of  the 
thongs  between  his  teeth,  and  seizing  the  screech- 
ing victim  by  the  loose  part  of  his  tattered  breeches 
he  clasped  him  between  his  bony  knees  and  stripped 
him  half-naked,  gasping  as  he  was  struggling  with 
his  pupil : "  I'll  show  you  how  to  mock  your  teacher  ! " 
Then  Gorgle  threw  the  screaming  urchin  upon  the 
bench,  and  motioning  to  me  said:  "Hold  his  feet." 

I  felt  helpless  and  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes;  the 
boys  looked  at  me  threateningly;  I  shivered  with 
fear  and  fingered  a  buttonhole  of  my  coat. 

"You  hold  his  feet,  I  say!"  commanded  Gorgle. 

My  reply  was  a  flood  of  tears. 

"Will  you  do  what  I  tell  you  or "  He  made 

a  threatening  gesture. 

I  did  not  budge  and  my  tears  flowed  faster. 

The  schoolmaster  released  his  victim  and  seized 
me.  My  hands  were  twisted  behind  me.  I  shrieked ; 
I  struggled ;  I  shouted  for  help ;  my  face  went  down, 


22  The  Fugitive 

up,  and  again  down;  one  button  of  my  breeches 
burst,  another  rolled  down  into  my  sock;  I  was 
overpowered ;  I  felt  my  back  bare ;  I  protected  with 
my  hands — then  cut !  cut !  cut !  the  thongs  came 
down  upon  my  bare  skin  at  the  rate  of  two  a  second, 
and — thank  God  ! — Gorgle  was  again  exhausted. 
"Now  you'll  know  how  to  mind  your  teacher!" 
he  panted,  and  released  me. 

"Take  your  seats!"  he  ordered  in  a  tremulous 
voice,  turning  upon  the  class.  "I'll  flay  the  hides  off 
your  carcasses,  you  rascals,  villains,  you  worthless 
creatures  !  Your  benefactors  pay  their  hard-earned 
money  for  your  tuition  and  bread,  and  in  the  end, 
you  leeches,  you" — he  paused  for  want  of  an 
appropriate  word — "you  don't  care  who  pays  me 
to  drum  God's  words  into  your  blockheads.  He ! 
[This  to  himself.]  I'll  teach  them  how  to  behave  in 
Talmud-Torah." 

He  wiped  the  perspiration  off  his  face  with  a 
large  coloured  handkerchief,  all  the  while  panting 
audibly.  "And  all  on  account  of  this  snot,"  he 
burst  out  again,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  me.  "You 
go  there."  He  pointed  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room.  "You  belong  to  the  other  class." 

Arranging  my  disordered  clothes,  and  sobbing 
brokenly,  I  dragged  myself  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room. 

The  class  to  which  I  was  assigned  was  known  as 
the  Gemoro  (Talmud)  section.  The  Gemoro  school- 
master took  in  my  tear-stained  face  with  a  single 


The  School  for  the  Poor  23 

stern  glance  and  ordered  me  to  a  seat  opposite 
him  at  the  foot  of  the  long  table.  I  shivered  as  my 
eyes  caught  his.  Gorgle  was  a  harmless  fly  as 
compared  with  this  instructor.  His  name  was 
Shlomka,  but  he,  like  his  associate,  was  known  by 
his  habits,  so  he  was  called  Gazlen,  whose  colloquial 
significance  was  murderer. 

"Motke!"  roared  Gazlen,  gnashing  his  teeth  and 
clenching  his  fists.  This  exclamation  was  an  admon- 
ishment to  one  of  the  twenty-two  boys  of  his  class 
who  had  whispered  something  to  his  neighbour. 

"Go  on!"  Shlomka  ground  his  teeth  furiously 
at  the  one  who  had  been  interrupted  in  his  recita- 
tion. 

The  poor  boy,  much  confused,  could  not  find 
the  place  where  he  had  left  off. 

"Would  that  I  had  waited  for  your  funeral, 
Rebenu-shel-Olam  [Creator  of  the  universe] !  Why 
don't  you  go  ahead  with  your  lesson,  you  little 
imp?" 

Gazlen's  cold  gray  eyes  moved  about  wrathfully 
as  the  poor  little  fellow  was  endeavouring  to  find 
the  right  place.  Then  they  came  back  to  the  boy, 
and  he  clenched  his  teeth  and  seized  the  knotty 
stick  that  lay  handy  for  use.  "You  go  on,  little 
devil,  or  I'll  drive  you  like  a  nail  into  the  wall — a 
— get !"  He  burst  out  anew,  brandishing  the  stick 
over  the  boy's  head. 

The  embarrassed  pupil  searched  in  vain  for  the 
desired  spot;  his  eyes,  I  surmised,  were  dancing 


24  The  Fugitive 

over     the     page    without    seeing   a    word  before 
him. 

"Would  that  I  had  waited  for  your  last  breath, 
Heavenly  Father!"  And  with  this  Gazlen  gave 
the  student  a  box  on  his  ear.  The  pupil,  however, 
did  not  betray  a  sign  of  pain ;  his  beautiful  express- 
ive face  grew  scarlet,  but  a  faint  smile  parted  his 
well-shaped  lips. 

Gazlen  raised  the  stick  and  made  as  if  to  strike 
the  boy.  "Ephraim,  you  will  proceed  or  I'll  break 
this  stick  on  your  head." 

One  of  the  pupils  made  an  effort  to  point  the 
place  to  the  unfortunate  Ephraim,  but  the  ever- 
watchful  Shlomka  caught  him  in  the  act,  and  rising 
impetuously  he  rewarded  the  sympathiser  unspar- 
ingly. 

" Nu,  Ephraim,"  Shlomka  resumed,  when  he  had 
given  the  other  his  due  meed,  "how  long  will  I 
wait  for  you,  dummy  ?  What  is  Rav  Shases's  [one 
of  the  Talmudic  jurists]  decision — tender  discharges 
the  debt  or  not?" 

I  thought  the  teacher  was  trying  to  help  him 
out. 

"It  does  not  discharge  the  debt,"  answered 
Ephraim. 

Bang  !  bang  !  bang !    The  knotted  stick  rose  and 
fell  on  the  head  of  the  boy  jurist,  and  Gazlen  empha- 
sised   each     stroke:     "It — is— about — time— for— 
you— to— know — that — according — to — Rabbi— 
Chiye—  the  —  debt  —  is  —  not  —  discharged  —  and— 


The  School  for  the  Poor  25 

according  —  to  —  Rav  Shases  —  the  —  debt  —  is — 
discharged." 

The  rest  of  the  day  I  spent  in  fearful  thought  as 
to  what  would  become  of  me.  At  about  eight  in 
the  evening  school  was  out,  and  we  went  into  the 
synagogue  below  for  prayers.  The  boys  ran  down 
the  stairs  pell-mell,  pushing  and  kicking  one  another, 
pulling  the  ears  of  the  passersby,  and  seemed  per- 
fectly happy  in  their  misery. 

When  prayers  were  over  I  recited  the  Kaddish  (a 
prayer  for  the  dead),  which  reminded  me  of  my 
mother,  and  again  the  tears  began  to  come.  I  can 
now  hear  my  ringing  voice  in  the  echoing  synagogue 
proclaiming  Yisgadal  V'Yiskadash  so  that  I  drew 
the  eyes  of  the  congregation  to  me.  But  I  broke 
down  in  the  middle  and  my  clear  notes  were  changed 
to  sobs.  The  boys  laughed;  some  even  sneered  at 
me.  But  one  came  up  after  Kaddish  and  made 
friends.  And  it  was  no  other  than  Ephraim,  on 
whose  head  Shlomka's  stick  had  fallen  with  such 
energy  in  the  morning. 

After  prayers  some  of  the  boys  ran  home,  and 
those  who  had  no  homes  went  to  their  "days," 
but  Ephraim  and  I  remained  in  the  synagogue. 
He  told  me  of  his  sordid  childhood  and  no  less 
miserable  youth;  he  also  was  an  orphan  without 
kith  or  kin.  Yet  despite  his  present  misery  he  did 
not  complain;  he  even  spoke  jestingly  of  Shlomka's 
blows.  He  was  about  three  years  my  senior  and 
possessed  more  self-reliance  than  I,  and  he  had  what 


a6  The  Fugitive 

seemed  to  me  an  extensive  knowledge  of  the  world. 
He  was  a  ruddy,  cheery  boy,  tall  for  his  age,  with 
a  large  crop  of  curly  hair  and  a  very  prominent 
white  forehead.  In  this  institution  of  swarthy, 
sickly,  ill-formed,  ill-dressed  boys  Ephraim  looked 
exotic. 

When  the  evening  advanced  and  the  sexton  began 
to  put  out  the  lights  in  the  synagogue  Ephraim 
asked  me  where  I  had  my  Tuesdays. 

I  told  him. 

"You  are  pretty  lucky,"  he  said  somewhat 
enviously,  with  a  smack  of  his  lips.  "  Only  the  very 
best  boys  in  the  class  or  the  Gabbai's  [President's] 
favourites  get  .such  '  days'  [here  he  smacked  his  lips 
again] — meat  for  dinner,  eggs  for  supper,  and  fre- 
quently five  copecks  extra."  He  looked  wistful 
a  few  seconds,  then  he  added:  "And  where  do  you 
get  your  Wednesdays  and  Thursdays?" 

I  mentioned  the  names  of  my  benefactors. 

"  Oh,  my !  A  fellow  could  get  rich  on  *  days '  like 
these.  They  often  give  ten  copecks  instead  of 
supper,  and  you  could  easily  save  nine." 

We  let  the  synagogue  door  bang  behind  us,  and 
before  we  parted  he  said:  "This  is  my  worst  'day': 
potatoes  in  the  morning,  black  bread  and  barley 
for  dinner,  loke  [the  gravy  of  herring]  and  bread 
for  supper.  They  don't  even  give  a  glass  of  tea  as 
dessert.  Regular  pigs,  and  they  are  very  rich — 
Baril,  the  money-loaner." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  started  for  his 


The  School  for  the  Poor  27 

supper,  but  turned  once  to  call:  "Shrolke,  you  can 
sleep  with  me  on  the  oven;  there  is  plenty  of  room 
there.  I  like  you.  You  are  a  good  fellow." 

My  heart  suddenly  warmed  over  these  words, 
and  tears  of  joy  rose  to  my  eyes.  I  loved  Ephraim 
dearly  from  that  instant.  It  may  be  because  he 
said  I  was  a  good  fellow,  but  I  am  sure  that  I  loved 
him  with  that  pure,  unselfish  love  which  a  homeless 
orphan  gives  to  his  first  friend. 


CHAPTER  IV 
THE  WAYS  OF  THE  TALMUD-TOR  AH 

As  I  have  previously  intimated,  I  was  in  those 
early  days  of  a  very  diffident  disposition.  The  boys 
at  school  disliked  me  for  my  reserve,  mistaking  my 
melancholy  shyness  for  pride.  If  it  had  not  been 
for  Ephraim,  the  only  friend  I  had,  the  boys  would 
have  pilfered  all  my  belongings  and  would  probably 
have  resorted  to  physical  torture.  But  everybody 
feared  him.  He  was  the  biggest  and  strongest  of 
the  boys,  so  naturally  his  word  was  law  to  them. 

Time  slowly  healed  the  wound  made  by  the 
death  of  my  mother,  and  little  by  little  I  became 
accustomed  to  my  new  life  of  poverty — nay,  more, 
I  even  began  to  be  almost  happy.  Perhaps  if  it 
had  not  been  my  fortune  to  gain  the  friendship  of 
Ephraim  life  would  not  have  run  so  smoothly,  but 
with  him  everything  else  was  forgotten.  Although 
we  were  quite  different  in  mind  and  disposition, 
yet  our  souls  seemed  to  cleave  to  one  another. 
Hand  in  hand  we  would  leave  the  town  limits  and 
lose  ourselves  in  the  far-stretching  fields  of  bloom- 
ing rye,  waving  wheat  and  oats,  and  hear  the 
swishing  of  the  supple  stalks  above  our  heads  as 
we  would  run  breathlessly  through  the  swaying 

28 


The  Ways  of  the  Talmud-Torah  29 

crops,  or  sitting  upon  some  promontory  we  would 
look  miles  away  over  endless  expanses  of  growing 
grain,  ridged  by  the  tickling  winds  in  wavelike 
folds,  when  everything  seemed  floating  and  swim- 
ming— the  grass,  the  bushy  leaves,  the  ears  of 
grain,  the  flowery  bloom — when  everything  swam 
in  never-ending  tides.  Ephraim  could  imitate 
almost  any  voice,  and  he  would  often  echo  the 
cuckoo,  whistle  with  flawless  purity  of  the  canary, 
or  chirp  as  none  but  birds  and  Ephraim  could  do. 
Like  little  kittens  we  would  roll  over  one  another, 
wrestle,  vie  in  throwing  stones  (of  course  Ephraim 
beat  me  every  time),  and  yell  in  order  to  hear  our 
echoes.  I  would  shout  myself  hoarse  in  order  to 
hear  the  resounding  answer  in  the  distant  forest 
until  Ephraim  would  put  his  hand  over  my  mouth 
and  hush  me  to  silence.  What  did  I  not  imagine 
those  voices  were !  Echoes  from  another  world, 
angelic  voices,  voices  that  descended  from  heaven 
like  rolls  of  thunder. 

My  oriental  imagination  found  infinite  pleasure 
in  the  fanciful  Prophets,  and  their  inexpressible 
charm  completely  captivated  my  mystic  mind. 
For  though  I  began  the  study  of  Talmud  that  sum- 
mer, I  did  not  neglect  the  Bible.  I  applied  myself 
zealously  to  the  Prophets  until  I  had  committed 
to  memory  Isaiah,  Proverbs,  Ecclesiastes,  the  Song 
of  Songs,  Lamentations,  and  nearly  all  of  the 
Psalms.  My  proficiency  was  soon  rumoured  about 
and  I  became  an  object  of  curiosity.  People  would 


30  The  Fugitive 

surround  me  in  the  synagogue  and  test  my  knowl- 
edge by  reading  a  verse  and  asking  me  to  give  the 
next  one,  which  I  did  without  hesitation.  Ephraim 
was  proud  of  me,  and  the  other  boys  hated  me  the 
more. 

Dreaming  and  mystic  by  nature,  I  was  made 
more  so  by  my  devotion  to  the  Prophets.  My 
mind  had  become  so  imbued  with  the  historical 
scenes  of  the  Bible  that  when  I  read  a  passage  a 
vision  of  the  event  described  would  arise  before 
me  with  all  the  vividness  of  reality.  I  would  see 
the  celestial,  peerless  poet  and  prophet,  Isaiah,  his 
flowing  Asiatic  garb  thrown  loosely  over  his  shoul- 
ders, his  dark  bearded  face  and  wandering  eyes 
lifted  heavenward,  fearlessly  pouring  forth  his 
fiery  eloquence  and  foretelling  the  doom  of  nations ; 
I  would  see  the  weeping  prophet  Jeremiah,  his 
head  bent  down,  supported  by  both  his  hands,  sit- 
ting by  the  ruins  of  the  Holy  City  and  bewailing 
the  downfall  of  his  people  and  their  sanctuaries — 
I  would  even  fancy  that  I  heard  the  Prophet's 
groans;  I  would  see  Ezekiel — the  cabalistic 
dreamer  and  mystic — standing  by  the  river  of 
Chebar  and  beholding  visions  in  the  open  heavens. 

During  this  period  I  almost  lived  in  the  Books  of 
the  Prophets;  their  words  were  ever  in  my  mind, 
their  visions  always  reflected  vividly  in  my  imagina- 
tion. 

The  summer  passed  and  the  Russian  winter, 
with  its  hoary  frosts  and  long  nights,  arrived.  The 


The  Ways  of  the  Talmud-Torah  31 

winter  school  hours  were- from  nine  in  the  morning 
till  ten  at  night.  Fragmentary  scenes  of  the  school 
arise  in  my  mind.  I  see  the  schoolroom,  sometimes 
overheated  and  sometimes  shivering  cold,  but 
always  close  and  reeking,  with  its  lamps  suspended 
on  long  wires  from  the  ceiling,  the  windows  thickly 
covered  with  ice  and  snow  so  it  is  scarcely  possible 
to  look  through  them,  the  floor  thick  with  dirt, 
which  keeps  on  accumulating  and  scarcely  ever 
feeling  the  stroke  of  a  broom;  fifty  or  more  boys 
cudgelling  their  brains  over  their  obsolete  studies, 
with  their  torn  caps,  through  which  their  hair 
protrudes,  and  with  torn  boots,  through  which  toes 
peep  out,  and  which  have  been  mended  so  often 
that  there  is  almost  nothing  left  to  patch  upon ;  and 
I  see  them  munching  crusts  of  bread,  which  they 
receive  from  the  institution  on  the  days  when  they 
have  no  "days,"  and  saying  parrotlike  grace  after 
swallowing  the  last  mouthful,  and  wishing  there 
had  been  a  few  bites  more.  And  then  I  see  the 
school  at  night.  It  is  midnight.  Outside,  the 
winds  are  howling  and  chasing  the  drifting  snow. 
I  hear  the  gruesome  noise  in  the  flue.  I  am  stretched 
on  the  warm  Dutch  oven,  with  Ephraim  by  my  side, 
snoring  complacently;  the  other  boys  lie  on  the 
narrow  benches  which  stand  against  the  walls  of 
the  Talmud-Torah,  using  their  fists  as  pillows.  I 
am  sleepless.  I  raise  myself  on  my  elbows  and 
glance  about  me.  To  my  right  is  the  erstwhile 
noisy  synagogue — gloomy,  awe-inspiring.  The  Ner- 


32  The  Fugitive 

Tomid  (the  perpetual  light)  is  glimmering  before 
the  Oren-Kodesh  (ark),  casting  its  great  shadow 
upon  the  wall.  To  my  left  is  the  large  schoolroom, 
in  which  a  small  light  is  burning;  the  shadows 
of  the  suspended,  slightly  oscillating  lamps  appear 
like  so  many  colossal  spiders  on  the  walls.  What  a 
babel  of  voices !  Some  of  the  children  on  the 
benches  snore  and  groan  and  unconsciously  make 
broken  complaint  against  the  world.  There  is  a 
sudden  shrieking  and  screeching.  I  know  whose 
voice  it  is — that  of ''Yankle  Snub-nose,"  as  we 
call  him ;  he  is  a  little,  hammered-down,  small-faced 
skinny  boy  whose  size  has  been  diminished  by  the 
constant  pounding  of  the  teacher.  He  has  just 
moved  this  semester  from  Gorgle's  class  to  Gazlen's, 
or  rather  from  the  former's  thongs  to  the  latter's 
cane.  Nobody  in  the  class  knows  as  much  about 
the  inflexibility  of  Shlomka's  cane  as  does  Yankle; 
only  the  other  day  it  broke  on  his  back.  He  is  now 
probably  dreaming  that  Gazlen  is  pulling  his  ears 
or  that  he  is  being  flogged.  Suddenly  he  stops; 
the  snoring  of  the  slumberers  becomes  louder  and 
louder.  Another  sleepy  voice  is  heard.  "Zemach, 
give  me  one  bite — a  bite — a  little  bite.  Hold  it 
between  your  hands  and  see  if  I  don't  take  a  little 
bite."  I  hear  the  boy  kick  the  bench;  perhaps 
because  he  cannot  get  a  "bite."  I  hear  several 
voices  at  once:  "Hit  him — hit  him,  you  pig's 
snout!"  "I'll  knock  the  stuffing  out  of  you!" 
"I  only  had  one  slice  of  bread  and  onion  !"  "Abii 


The  Ways  of  the  Talmud-lotah  33 

[one  of  the  Talmudic  authorities]  says  it  must  be 
divided  in  halves  !"  "  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Catch  him — 
catch  him — ha  [he  rolled  off  the  bench]!"  And 
so  I  lie  and  think  until  I  decide  to  pull  the 
blanket  over  my  head  and  wander  away  also  to 
dreamland. 

Another  summer  and  another  winter  glided  by, 
with  the  same  monotonous  "  day-eating,"  sleeping 
on  the  comfortable  Dutch  oven,  receiving  of  occa- 
sional raps  from  Shlomka's  stick,  diving  in  the 
Talmudic  ocean,  and  soaring  high,  high  into  the 
spheres  whither  Isaiah,  Ezekiel,  and  King  David 
transported  me.  Although  my  physical  being  was 
confined  within  the  narrow  walls  of  the  dirty 
Talmud-Torah,  my  fancy  took  flight  to  Mount 
Lebanon,  Mount  Meriah,  to  the  realm  of  Judea, 
and  sometimes  descended  to  the  Valley  of  Sharon, 
where  I  plucked  the  sweetest  of  roses.  In  our  leisure 
hours  Ephraim  and  I  would  read  the  "Menoras- 
Hamoer,"  a  book  abounding  in  legends  and 
mystic  tales,  and  other  cabalistic  books  that  told 
of  devils  and  flying  angels  and  seraphs. 

The  following  summer  Ephraim  decided  to  leave 
the  Talmud-Torah  and  go  to  some  other  town. 

"Listen,  Shrolke,"  he  said  to  me  one  summer 
evening.  "  I  am  already  a  big  boy,  and  I  can  read 
a  page  of  Talmud  without  any  assistance.  Why 
should  I  stay  here  when  I  can  go  to  any  town  and 
get  'days'  and  see  the  world?" 

His  words  filled  me  with  dismay.     But  I  sym- 


34  The  Fugitive 

pathised  with  his  desire  to  leave  this  place,  so  I 
agreed  that  his  plan  was  a  good  one. 

"But  before  I  leave  I  must  take  revenge  on 
Shlomka." 

I  hated  the  idea  of  vengeance.  Besides,  Shlomka 
was  our  teacher,  and  I  thought  he  had  a  right  to 
beat  us.  I  begged  Ephraim  not  to  do  any  harm  to 
the  schoolmaster. 

"Oh,  you  are  like  a  girl — always  afraid  of  every- 
body," he  answered  almost  contemptuously.  "  Why 
did  he  pull  your  ears  yesterday?  Couldn't  he 
tell  you  to  sit  down  without  slapping  your  face 
first?" 

I  was  silenced. 

The  following  morning,  when  Shlomka  came  to 
school,  he  found  on  the  wall  a  coal-drawn  cartoon 
of  himself  in  the  act  of  spanking  a  pupil. 

The  class  was  silent  from  fear,  but  satisfaction 
could  be  read  in  their  countenances.  The  teacher 
glanced  at  the  wall  and  then  looked  threateningly 
at  his  pupils.  He  was  puzzled  as  to  who  was  the 
perpetrator  of  this  atrocious  deed,  but  he  did  not 
hesitate.  He  began  with  the  pupil  nearest  him 
and  caned  each  in  order  until  he  had  finished  the 
round,  and  the  whole  class  was  screaming  and 
writhing  with  pain.  But  as  he  was  going  to  lay 
the  stick  aside  he  heard  one  whisper:  "Shrolke  did 
the  work  and  everybody  gets  paid  for  it." 

"  Ha  !  You — you—  "  he  burst  out,  bearing  down 
upon  me,  with  the  stick  raised  ready  to  strike. 


The  Ways  of  the  Talmud-Torah  35 

"You — you — you — you  think  you  are  like  your 
brother,  who  betrayed  his  father  for  the  smile  of  a 
Shikse  [gentile  girl],  hey?  You  think  you  will  also 
throw  me  into  prison,  hey?  You  think  you  will 
denounce  me  that  I  use  Christian  blood  for  the 
Passover,  hey?  You  think  you  will  get  the  Slede- 
vatel  against  me,  hey?  You  think  I'll  tip  my  hat 

for  you,  hey  ?  You  think  you  will on  my  head 

and  I'll  say  'thank  you,'  hey?" 

With  each  "hey"  there  came  a  blow.  But  sud- 
denly the  stick  was  arrested;  Ephraim  had  jumped 
behind  Shlomka  and  seized  his  hand.  "Stop 
beating  him!"  shouted  Ephraim  in  a  commanding 
voice.  "He  did  not  draw  your  picture  on  the 
wall.  I  did  it." 

Shlomka  stood  astounded;  then  the  arteries  on 
his  forehead  swelled  till  they  looked  like  blue  cords, 
and  his  face  began  to  work  ominously.  We  expected 
to  see  him  fall  upon  this  revolutionist  and  rend 
him. 

But  Ephraim  was  undaunted.  "I  am  not  your 
wife  or  any  of  these  little  cowards,"  he  went  on. 
"If  you  raise  your  hand  on  me  I'll  break  your  fat 
nose." 

Shlomka  made  a  move  for  the  stick,  which  was 
trembling  in  Ephraim' s  hand.  But  he  instantly 
reversed  his  apparent  decision  and  sat  down, 
shaking  his  ringer  at  his  pupil.  "I'll  not  soil  my 
hands  on  you,  you  rascal,"  Shlomka  Gazlen  said, 
panting  and  quivering.  "The  Gaboim  [officers] 


36  The  Fugitive 

of  the  Talmud-Torah  will  settle  my  account 
with  you." 

Without  saying  a  word,  Ephraim  broke  Shlomka  s 
stick  on  his  knee  and  left  the  class. 

He  did  not  return  until  after  evening  service, 
when  he  came  up  to  me  and  said  in  a  whisper: 
"I  am  not  done  with  him  yet.  To-morrow  is 
my  last  day  here,  and  I'll  leave  him  a  token  of 
friendship." 

On  summer  afternoons  at  about  three  o'clock 
Shlomka  and  Gorgle  would  grant  their  classes  a 
recess  of  about  half  an  hour,  during  which  Shlomka 
would  take  a  nap  with  his  arms  folded  upon  the 
table  and  Gorgle  would  go  home  to  feed  his  goat. 
The  next  day  Ephraim  did  not  appear  at  school 
until  this  recess  period.  The  boys  were  all  out  in 
the  yard,  and  Shlomka  was  peacefully  snoring,  his 
beard  spread  out  on  the  cracked,  worm-eaten  table. 

"Hold  this,"  Ephraim  said  to  me  in  apparent 
haste,  pulling  a  candle  from  his  pocket. 

I  could  not  divine  what  was  in  his  mind,  but  I  did 
as  he  bade  me. 

He  lighted  the  candle  in  my  hand  and  said: 
"Come,  quick." 

I  hesitated. 

"Oh,  you  coward!    Come!"  he  ordered  angrily. 

I  followed  with  a  leaping  heart  to  where  Shlomka 
sat  asleep.  Ephraim  produced  a  piece  of  sealing- 
wax,  melted  it,  and  sealed  Shlomka's  beard  to  the 
table. 


The  Ways  of  the  Talmtid-Tofah  37 

"To  the  'Bloody  Hill,'  "  he  whispered  as  he  ran 
out  of  the  Talmud-Torah. 

The  picture  of  the  teacher  awakening  and  trying 
to  raise  his  sealed  beard  from  the  table  I  leave  to 
the  reader's  imagination. 

At  about  the  time  Shlomka  was  probably  arousing 
from  his  nap  two  boys  stood  on  the  "high  hill" 
which  overtowered  my  birthplace,  clasped  in  each 
other's  arms.  The  taller  one  smiled  humorously, 
his  face  bright  with  the  satisfaction  of  victory; 
the  eyes  of  the  smaller  were  filled  with  tears. 

"We'll  soon  meet  again,"  said  the  taller  of  the 
two  hopefully,  as  he  took  up  his  little  bundle. 

"We'll  soon  meet  again,"  echoed  the  smaller 
one  weakly;  and  he  watched  the  disappearing  form 
of  his  only  friend  through  tears  that  came  faster 
than  they  could  be  wiped  away. 


CHAPTER  V 
"THE  LITHUANIAN  ERA" 

AFTER  Ephraim  had  left  me  I  remained  absolutely 
solitary  in  the  midst  of  my  wretched  schoolmates. 
I  hoped  Ephraim  would  write  to  me,  but  weeks 
passed  by  without  bringing  me  word.  Then  mis- 
fortune fell  again,  and  I  was  again  thrown  out  upon 
the  world. 

It  was  on  the  first  day  of  the  Jewish  month  of 
Allul,  toward  the  end  of  the  summer.  It  was  a 
half -holiday  and  all  the  boys  were  out.  I  sat  alone 
in  the  class-room  before  a  big  folio  of  the  Talmud, 
my  whole  attention  concentrated  on  a  case  in  which 
"the  defendant's  ox  gored  the  cow  of  the  plaintiff, 
and  it  was  found  that  the  plaintiff's  cow  gave 
premature  birth  to  its  offspring;  it  being  unknown 
whether  the  premature  birth  had  occurred  before 
or  after  the  defendant's  ox  gored  the  plaintiff's  cow. 
Defendant  claims  that  it  occurred  before,  and  the 
plaintiff  alleges  that  the  birth  was  given  after  the 
goring  and  by  reason  thereof."  Bright  little  jurist 
as  I  had  become,  it  was  quite  a  puzzle  for  me  to 
extricate  myself  from  the  hair-splitting  reasoning 
for  and  against  the  parties  to  this  action. 

38 


"The  Lithuanian  Era"  39 

Suddenly  wild  shrieks  reached  my  ears:  "Fire! 
Fire!" 

Nothing  is  more  terrifying  to  Lithuanians 
than  fire.  To  these  poverty-stricken  inhabitants 
it  means  absolute  destitution.  Few  have  their 
property  insured;  most  of  them  have  nothing  to 
insure  but  their  decayed  "four  corners,"  as  they 
call  their  hovels,  for  which  they  can  scarcely  spare 
the  premium. 

Every  Lithuanian  town  is  visited  at  least  every 
twenty  years  by  a  destructive  fire  which  literally 
wipes  it  out  of  existence,  so  that  these  disasters 
have  become  distinct  epochs  of  each  town's  history. 
The  Lithuanian  calendar  dates  back  to  the  first 
fire,  the  second,  or  the  third. 

At  the  terrifying  cry,  followed  by  the  tolling  of 
the  sonorous  fire-bell,  I  seized  the  Old  Testament 
which  my  mother  had  left  me,  stowed  it  safely  in 
my  inside  coat-pocket,  and  rushed  in  fright  out  of 
the  Talmud-Torah.  A  vast  volume  of  smoke  swept 
over  the  school-yard.  Before  I  was  half-way  to  the 
original  fire  a  score  of  houses  were  burning,  and  in  an 
incredibly  short  time  half  the  town  was  in  flames. 

I  ran  toward  the  market-place — a  large  open 
square  which  the  fire  could  not  reach.  The  streets 
were  filled  with  frantic  people.  Men  were  groaning 
and  shouting;  women  were  wringing  their  hands 
and  weeping  bitterly;  children,  holding  on  to  their 
mothers'  skirts,  cried  and  screamed;  cattle  roamed 
about,  lowing  and  bellowing.  Mothers  rushed  with 


40  The  Fugitive 

their  children  in  their  arms ;  men  staggered  under  the 
heavy  loads,  which  they  carried  to  places  of  safety. 
Collisions  were  frequent  and  disastrous.  Every 
one  was  trying  to  save  his  family  and  his  own  belong- 
ings. No  one  made  any  effort  to  put  out  the  flames. 
The  conflagration  soared  higher  and  higher; 
flickering  streaks  flashed  from  every  side ;  broad 
blazes  swept  right  and  left,  devouring  as  they  went 
the  straw-thatched  log  houses. 

I  reached  the  market-place.  It  was  already 
crowded  with  heaps  of  furniture  and  other  household 
goods,  on  top  of  which  their  owners  sat  on  guard. 
By  this  time  all  the  houses  in  town  were  ablaze, 
and  a  violent  wind  fanned  the  fire  into  embracing 
sheets  of  flame.  Burning  wisps  of  straw  from  the 
thatched  roofs,  and  firebrands  driven  by  the  fierce 
wind,  flew  in  the  air  meteorlike.  The  heavy 
timbers  of  the  well-constructed  houses  fell  with 
roars  into  the  flaring  debris  beneath.  Here  and 
there  a  man  tried  to  save  his  home  by  throwing  on 
it  pails  of  water,  but  all  in  vain.  The  town  was 
doomed.  So,  shielding  my  face  with  my  cap  from 
the  scorching  heat,  I  ran  toward  the  outskirts  of 
the  town. 

The  town  was  surrounded  with  a  chain  of  hills, 
among  which  "Bloody  Hill"  was  the  most  promi- 
nent. I  ran  diagonally  across  the  fields,  now  laid 
waste  by  hundreds  of  trampling  feet  and  by  house- 
hold goods  scattered  upon  them,  and  I  climbed  to 
the  top  of  "  Bloody  Hill."  I  seated  myself  upon  a 


"The  Lithuanian  Era"  41 

huge  rock  which  crowned  the  hill,  and  looked  down 
upon  my  burning  birthplace.  The  sky  was  clouded 
with  heavy  curtains  of  black  smoke  that  overhung 
the  whole  region,  and  myriads  of  sparks  and  cinders 
flying  around  in  this  floating  vault  tinged  it  with 
burnished  gold  and  crimson  and  dotted  its  zenith 
with  constellationlike  groups.  All  the  people  about 
me  were  weeping — poor  mothers  who  foresaw  starva- 
tion for  the  babies  in  their  arms;  marriageable 
maidens  whose  dowries  were  now  gone  and  who 
were  doomed  to  spinsterhood ;  fathers  who  had 
always  been  penned  in  the  "pale"  by  Russian  bar- 
barity and  could  not  clearly  see  by  what  miracle 
they  would  be  able  to  rebuild  their  "four  corners." 
I  joined  in  the  general  grief.  More  than  all  of  them 
I  had  occasion  to  mourn;  for  those  poor  people  had 
friends  and  kindred  to  console  one  another.  But 
whom  had  I?  The  Talmud-Torah  burned  down, 
my  benefactors  and  "day"  givers  ruined — whither 
could  I  turn?  I  had  no  friend,  no  kindred,  as  if  I 
were  borji  of  the  rock  I  sat  upon.  My  head  fell 
between  both  my  hands,  and  I  wept  until  I  could 
weep  no  more.  In  my  fancy  I  compared  this  fire 
to  that  which  reduced  the  Holy  City  to  ashes,  and 
like  a  little  Jeremiah  I  sat  by  the  ruins  of  my  town 
and  bewailed  the  loss  of  my  people. 

A  few  hours  later  the  whole  town,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  a  few  houses  in  the  outskirts,  was  trans- 
formed to  an  expanse  of  glowing  ashes.  Here  and 
there  mounds  and  hillocks  of  charcoal  and  ashes 


42  The  Fugitive 

belched   forth   spurts   of   flame.     How   small    my 
birthplace  looked — like  a  private  graveyard ! 

But  misfortunes  never  come  singly,  they  say. 
It  was  not  enough  that  we  had  lost  our  homes  by 
fire;  as  darkness  began  to  settle  about  our  misery, 
soft  rolls  of  thunder  were  heard.  Soon  drops  of 
rain  began  to  fall,  and  blinding  flashes  of  lightning 
ripped  across  the  black  sky.  In  another  minute 
the  sky  seemed  to  break  open,  and  it  rained  as  though 
another  deluge  had  come  upon  us.  What  little  had 
been  saved  from  the  fire  was  ruined  by  water. 
The  people  about  me  covered  their  heads  with  pails, 
pans,  or  boards,  or  sought  shelter  under  tables  and 
bedding  they  had  saved.  But  I  was  so  utterly 
despairing  that  I  was  indifferent  to  the  downpour. 
Drawing  myself  together,  I  let  the  rain  wash  me 
clean. 


CHAPTER  VI 
A  NIGHT  IN  A  FOREST 

AFTER  a  time  the  rain  ceased,  the  clouds  broke,  and 
the  stars  began  to  appear  one  by  one,  slowly,  as  if  they 
shrank  from  looking  down  upon  the  misery  below. 
I  arose,  but  I  was  so  stiff  and  numb  that  I  could 
hardly  stretch  a  limb.  I  began  to  walk,  painfully 
at  first,  without  the  least  knowledge  where  my  feet 
were  taking  me.  The  darkness  about  me  added 
gloom  to  my  despair.  I  now  felt  more  than  ever 
that  I  was  an  orphan — a  lonely  child  in  the  great 
egotistic  world.  Now  and  then,  however,  a  star 
twinkled  hope  to  me,  and  not  infrequently  a  shrill 
cricket,  leaping  in  the  wet  grass,  seemed  to  offer 
me  courage.  Presently  I  found  myself  in  the 
skirts  of  a  forest ;  it  was  dense  and  deep — a  genuine 
Russian  forest.  I  recalled  a  little  open  space  a  few 
hundred  yards  within  this  forest,  which  had  been 
my  favourite  resort  on  pleasant  Sabbath  afternoons. 
I  had  always  loved  the  mighty  solitude  of  the 
forest;  there  seemed  to  be  a  certain  kinship  to  my 
weary  melancholy.  But  now  I  remained  standing 
with  trembling  fear.  The  moaning  of  the  fire 
victims  still  rang  in  my  ears ;  all  the  horrible  stories 
of  beasts  and  robbers  I  had  heard  in  my  childhood 

43 


44  The  Fugitive 

haunted  my  brain.  The  least  noise  made  my  flesh 
creep.  I  advanced  a  step  and  stopped  again.  A 
wind  swayed  the  boughs  of  a  sapling  and  emitted 
something  like  a  sigh,  as  if  it  were  pitying  the  poor 
orphan  standing  near  it.  Then  silence  again.  The 
large  forest  slept :  all  nature  rested.  I  held  my  breath. 
I  put  my  feet  down  softly  and  took  the  path  that 
led  to  my  favourite  retreat.  The  clear  moon, 
peeping  through  the  thick  foliage,  escorted  me  step 
by  step.  On  my  way  I  annoyed  a  number  of  birds 
in  their  nests  in  bushes;  their  flutter  of  wings  and 
twitter  were  perhaps  complaints  against  me,  but 
I  also  complained,  and  nobody  heeded  my  grumbling. 

At  last  I  reached  my  favourite  spot,  and  being 
utterly  fatigued  I  stretched  myself  upon  the  long, 
soft  grass  and  forgot  all  my  troubles  in  dreamland. 

I  found  myself  on  the  peak  of  a  high  mountain, 
very  high,  almost  reaching  the  clouds,  with  a  staff, 
budding  leaves  and  blossoming,  in  one  hand,  and 
in  the  other  I  had  a  musty-looking  little  book,  like 
the  one  my  mother  had  left  me.  Enchanting 
melodies  reached  my  ears.  I  glanced  down.  At  the 
foot  of  the  height  I  stood  upon  there  ran  a  broad 
stream,  in  which  people  rowed  about  in  small 
barges;  and  across  this  flowing  water  stood  a  mag- 
nificent structure,  the  lower  part  of  which  resembled 
our  synagogue  and  the  upper  looked  like  an  ancient 
Grecian  temple.  A  number  of  people  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  this  singular  edifice  and  motioned  to 
me  to  drop  my  burdens — the  staff  and  the  little 


A  Night  in  a  Forest  45 

book — for  they  became  heavy,  yet  they  were 
dear  to  me,  so  I  hesitated.  The  multitude 
below  renewed  their  invitation,  and  the  longer 
I  hesitated  the  more  demonstrative  became  the 
crowd.  They  began  to  threaten  me  that  unless  I 
drop  my  staff  and  book  and  come  down  willingly 
they  would  pull  me  down.  But  their  threats  gave 
me  courage  and  lent  warmth  to  my  blood.  Then 
the  vociferous  throng  began  climbing  the  slope  of 
the  mountain,  yet  I  did  not  budge ;  I  feared  them  not. 
They  soon  reached  me  and  showered  crushing  blows 
upon  me,  but  I  did  not  care ;  I  did  not  even  attempt 
to  return  a  blow.  The  staff  and  the  book  now 
became  precious  to  me,  and  I  pressed  them  to  my 
breast  with  all  my  might.  Hard  as  they  pulled  at 
the  leaves  of  the  book,  they  could  not  tear  a  leaf. 
The  only  injury  it  sustained  was  a  little  dirt  from 
my  perspiring  hands  in  clasping  it  tightly.  Then 
a  hundred  hands  seized  me  and  began  pulling  me 
down,  but  I  suddenly  felt  my  strength  becoming 
herculean  and  I  forced  them  all  back,  remaining  in 
my  lofty  position  and  laughing  them  all  to  scorn. 

In  another  instant  the  sun  appeared  resplen- 
dently.  My  bleeding  wounds,  which  the  mob  had 
inflicted  upon  me,  began  to  heal,  and  the  blood 
in  my  veins  now  coursed  warmer  and  swifter.  I 
was  feeling  young  again.  I  erected  my  stooped 
shoulders,  straightened  my  bowed  head,  washed 
my  bespattered  face.  Suddenly  the  crowd  below 
reappeared;  again  the  flowing  stream  at  the  foot  of 


46  The  Fugitive 

the  mountain ;  again  the  curious  structure ;  but  now 
the  crowd  below  sent  friendly  greetings  to  me. 
Without  hesitation  I  flung  the  staff  and  the  book 
aside  and  began  to  descend  the  precipitous  slope, 
when  I  lost  my  balance  and  rolled  down,  down, 
down,  until — I  awoke. 

I  sat  down  in  the  soft,  moist  grass  and  sleepily 
glanced  about  me.  The  day  was  just  breaking.  A 
gauzelike  bluish  mist  hung  over  the  forest,  and  the 
moisture  of  the  night  dripped,  tip,  tip,  tip,  from 
bough  to  bough,  from  leaf  to  leaf.  Here  and  there 
pearl-like  beads  of  dew,  hanging  on  grass-blades, 
twinkled  like  diamond  studs  in  green  fleece.  From 
the  heart  of  the  woods  there  echoed  early  morning 
sounds — the  horn  of  a  distant  shepherd;  the  faint 
lowing  of  a  cow ;  the  bleating  of  a  sheep ;  the  lash  of  a 
whip  like  a  ringing  pistol-shot.  Silence  for  a  moment. 
I  languidly  rested  on  my  elbow.  A  rustle  above  my 
head  drew  my  eyes  thither:  a  canary-finch  skipped 
around  restlessly,  gently  swinging  the  boughs  of  a 
tree.  Then  she  began  to  sing.  First  her  crisp 
sweet  notes  came  in  short  warbles,  but  soon,  as  if 
heated  by  her  own  enthusiasm,  her  song  swelled  to  a 
thrilling  string  of  purling,  quivering  melodies. 
"  Tchi  —  tchi  —  tchi  —  tchiruck  —  tchiruck  —  tchi — 
tchi — tchi,"  another  forest  singer  struck  in;  then 
followed  the  notes  of  the  cuckoo,  the  bobolink,  the 
chaffinch,  as  well  as  the  chirping  and  whistling  and 
humming  and  buzzing  of  all  other  birds  and  flying 
and  creeping  insects  that  help  awaken  the  mighty 


A  Night  in  a  Forest  47 

forest.  This  weird  concert  stirred  all  my  senses  and 
made  me  forget  all  else  in  the  world.  Every  thrill 
jerked  and  tugged  at  my  heart  as  if  those  dwellers 
of  the  woods  had  invisible  strings  attached  to  it. 

But  soon  the  disaster  of  the  preceding  day  flashed 
through  my  mind.  I  realised  anew  that  I  was  a 
friendless  wanderer.  Again  I  asked  myself,  Whither 
should  I  go?  My  native  town  was  no  more,  and 
what  did  I  know  of  the  rest  of  the  world  ?  I  thought 
of  Ephraim — but  where  was  he?  At  length  I 
arose,  washed  my  face  in  a  little  brook  near  by, 
dried  it  with  my  Arba-Kanfas,  and  started  through 
the  forest,  giving  myself  blindly  over  to  chance. 

After  a  long  walk,  which  almost  exhausted  me — 
for  I  had  had  nothing  to  eat  since  the  previous 
morning — I  faintly  heard  hilarious  shouts.  I  turned 
into  the  direction  from  which  the  voices  came,  and 
soon  found  myself  nearing  the  edge  of  the  forest. 
Now  the  cries  sounded  very  distinctly,  "  Tu-ha! 
tu-ha!  tu-ha!"  and  I  knew  I  was  approaching  a 
group  of  swineherds.  My  heart  began  to  throb 
fretfully.  I  crept  forward  cautiously  and  peered 
from  behind  a  bush.  There  were  five  of  them, 
lying  on  their  stomachs  in  the  grass,  with  several 
lean  and  shaggy  dogs  stretched  beside  them.  As  I 
watched  them  they  took  up  their  pipes,  made  of 
willow  bark,  and  in  turn  played  their  peasant 
melodies — sweet,  eloquent,  wild,  yet  how  simple ! 
One  could  read  in  their  rustic  airs  their  people's 
history,  their  character,  their  manners,  their  hopes 


48  The  Fugitive 

and  aspirations.  As  they  played  they  knocked 
their  heels  together  as  if  beating  time  to  their 
music,  and  their  dogs,  as  if  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy, 
rolled  their  tails  and  leaped  about  restlessly,  opening 
and  snapping  their  jaws,  or  barked  at  nothing  in 
particular. 

Envy  filled  my  heart.  I  wished  I,  too,  were  a 
swineherd  rolling  over  deep  grass  in  the  shade  of 
trees  and  piping  melodies.  I  wished  I  had  never 
been  born  a  Jew,  but  a  gentile  like  these  boys. 
"  Is  it  not  enough  to  bear  the  burden  of  man,  that 
I  must  in  addition  bear  the  burden  of  the  Jew?"  I 
said  to  myself  bitterly. 

Despite  the  innocent  happiness  of  these  boys,  I 
feared  them  as  possible  enemies.  I  was  going  to 
slip  away  unobserved,  when  I  happened  to  think  of 
Ephraim.  "He  is  right — I  am  a  coward,"  I  said  to 
myself.  This  reproachful  thought  lent  courage 
to  my  nerves,  and  I  stepped  into  the  open  and 
walked  toward  the  swineherds. 

They  beheld  me  approaching  them — a  slim  boy 
of  fifteen,  my  untrimmed  dark-brown  hair  hanging 
down  my  neck,  the  four  fringes  of  my  Arba-Kanfas 
dangling  about  me,  hatless,  coatless,  my  breeches 
tattered  and  patched,  my  boots  so  mended  that  the 
patches  needed  patches — ragged,  hungry,  exhausted. 
They  beheld  all  this,  yet  they  saw  but  one  thing— 
the  Jew. 

"This  is  a  Sjid  [a  slanderous  name  for  Jew],"  I 
heard  one  remark. 


A  Night  hi  a  Forest  40 

I  was  immediately  surrounded  by  the  peasant 
boys,  among  whom  I  stood  half-paralysed  with 
fear.  They  were  dressed  in  unbleached  linen  shirts 
and  in  trousers  of  the  same  material.  Their  feet 
were  bare,  and  their  flaxen  hair  hung  around  their 
shoulders  like  fringes  of  raw  hemp. 

"Certainly  a  Sjid,"  said  the  biggest  of  them. 
"Can't  you  see  his  black  breeches?" 

"Give  us  cigarettes,  you  parasitical  Sjid !"  one  of 
the  swineherds  ordered,  and  the  rest  joined  in  the 
demand,  brandishing  their  whips  in  my  face.  I 
begged  for  mercy  in  the  softest,  most  supplicating 
tone  I  could  command.  I  had  no  cigarettes,  I 
told  them,  and  added  that  I  was  almost  fainting 
from  starvation. 

"Then  give  us  money  for  cigarettes,  you  devil 
of  a  Jew,  Christ-killer,  Judas,  parasite!"  all  burst 
out  at  once,  pressing  closer  about  me  and  punching 
me  with  their  whips. 

I  declared  piteously  that  I  had  only  a  few  coppers, 
which  I  would  willingly  give  them  for  a  piece  of 
bread. 

"Cigarettes  or  money!"  all  exclaimed.  Several 
struck  me  with  the  butts  of  their  whips,  and  I  heard 
their  whole  vocabulary  of  vituperation  against  my 
race. 

"  Let  me  go !"  I  begged  of  them,  feeling  so  weak 
that  I  could  scarcely  talk  or  cry. 

The  biggest  of  them  tore  off  my  Arba-Kanfas 
and  kicked  my  shins,  felling  me  to  the  ground,  and 


50  The  Fugitive 

the  others  laid  their  whips  over  my  body  and  face. 
"Give  us  money  or  cigarettes  !"  they  shouted. 

I  put  my  hand  in  my  pocket  to  pull  out  my  last 
few  coppers.  But  they  were  gone.  I  must  have 
lost  them  in  the  woods. 

They  thought  I  was  trying  to  deceive  them  and 
went  through  my  pockets  themselves.  On  finding 
nothing,  the  biggest  one  struck  me  in  the  jaw  with 
his  fist  and  said:  "Give  us  cigarettes,  anyhow,  you 
Christ-killer!" 

I  could  make  no  answer.  My  sight  grew  dimmer 
and  dimmer  and  my  head  whirled.  The  last  I 
remember  of  that  incident  are  sharp  cuts  of  whips, 
furious  dogs  jumping  upon  me,  tearing  at  my  already 
torn  clothes,  and  the  shrieking  and  whistling  and 
laughing  of  the  swineherds. 


CHAPTER  VII 
I  FALL  AMONG  GENTILES 

I  WAS  in  a  stupor,  half-waking,  half-dozing, 
when  my  ear  caught  the  sound  of  a  voice.  I 
wished  to  open  my  eyes,  but  I  felt  so  fatigued  and 
rested  so  pleasantly  that  I  did  not  care  to  open 
them,  as  we  often  feel  on  a  cool  morning  when  the 
alarm-clock  strikes  to  waken  us.  The  faint  sound 
became  clearer  and  clearer — it  seemed  to  me  that 
the  owner  of  the  voice  was  drawing  nearer  to  me 
until  I  could  hear  distinct  words. 

"He  is  stirring." 

This  was  not  in  a  peasant's  dialect,  but  in  pure 
Russian,  which  I  was  not  accustomed  to  hear. 

"  Sh — sh  !"  another  voice  cautioned. 

I  opened  my  eyes,  turning  them  one  way,  then 
another,  and  stared  about  me  in  amazement. 
"I  must  be  dreaming,"  I  said  to  myself  incredu- 
lously, as  I  glanced  at  the  fine  bed  on  which  I  lay  and 
at  the  soft  pillows  and  snow-white  sheets,  the  like 
of  which  I  had  not  seen  since  my  mother  died.  I 
rubbed  my  eyes  again  and  surveyed  the  room.  It 
was  spacious,  with  large  windows  on  two  sides,  and 
its  walls  were  hung  with  paintings  and  etchings. 
"  How  did  I  come  here  ?"  I  asked  myself.  I  recalled 


52  The  Fugitive 

my  adventure  with  the  swineherds,  and  I  realised, 
though  half-consciously,  that  a  long  period  had 
intervened  between  that  incident  and  the  present, 
but  I  could  not  remember  anything  that  took  place 
during  the  lapse. 

"How  do  you  feel?"  was  asked  of  me  in  a  soft 
feminine  voice. 

I  only  smiled  in  reply.  I  could  not  understand 
the  meaning  of  all  this ;  it  recurred  to  my  mind  that 
perhaps  I  was  dreaming,  after  all. 

I  said  something  in  Yiddish,  my  mother  tongue, 
but  the  people  about  me  seemed  not  to  understand 
it.  Then  a  sickly  looking  woman  asked  me  in 
Russian  whether  I  wished  for  anything. 

"  I  should  like  to  know  what  happened  to  me  and 
where  I  am,"  I  responded  in  the  peasant's  dialect. 

She  smoothed  my  forehead  and  said  gently: 
"Lie  still.  The  doctor  says  you  must  have  rest." 

I  closed  my  eyes  again.  Gradually  my  memory 
strengthened,  and  I  began  to  trace  back  step  by  step 
to  the  time  when  I  lost  consciousness.  I  had  a  dim 
recollection  of  being  taken  in  a  carriage,  of  giving 
my  name,  and  having  suffered  great  pain,  but  the 
rest  was  a  mist. 

A  few  days  later  I  was  strong  enough  to  sit  up  in 
bed  propped  up  with  pillows.  How  I  had  come  here 
was  now  clear  to  me,  thanks  to  the  information  of 
my  good  nurse. 

Morovoyi  Sudya  (Justice  of  the  Peace)  Alexis 
Bialnick,  the  owner  of  the  big  forest  in  which  I 


I  Fall  Among7  Gentiles  53 

spent  the  night  after  the  fire,  found  me  lying  in 
the  outskirts  of  the  woods,  half-naked  and  un- 
conscious. Finding  his  own  efforts  to  revive  me 
of  no  avail,  he  ordered  me  to  be  taken  to  his 
home.  As  feeble  as  I  was,  I  had  a  strong  in- 
clination to  rise  and  leave  the  house.  My  bene- 
factor was  a  gentile,  his  food  was  trief  (ritually 
unclean),  and  I  feared  lest  he  should  force  me  to 
baptism  in  compensation  for  his  kindness.  I  had 
heard  of  such  crafty  proselytism,  and  besides,  who 
had  ever  heard  of  a  gentile  showing  disinterested 
kindness  to  a  Jew?  I  remembered  the  warning 
written  by  my  grandfather  on  the  fly-leaf  of  the 
Testament  my  mother  had  left  me,  that  we  should 
shun  gentile  favours,  because  they  would  be  invari- 
ably followed  by  loss  or  injury. 

However,  these  prejudices  weakened  the  longer 
I  stayed  in  the  house  of  the  Sudya.  He  appeared 
to  me  like  an  angel  coming  to  my  rescue;  and  who 
could  tell  but  that  he  was  Elijah  metamorphosed 
to  the  form  of  a  goy  (gentile)  ?  My  brain,  always 
full  of  superstitions  and  trusting  in  miracles,  easily 
credited  the  thought,  and  for  a  moment  I  held  my 
breath. 

One  morning,  after  I  had  become  able  to  move 
about  the  room,  I  was  asked  to  step  into  the  Sudya's 
study.  He  was  seated  in  a  large  arm-chair  and 
was  in  the  act  of  tossing  a  rubber  ball  to  a  girl 
who  had  occasionally  come  into  my  room  to  ask 
after  my  health.  My  appearance  interrupted  her 


54  The  Fugitive 

from  flinging  it  back,  and  faintly  colouring  she 
remained  standing  with  hand  uplifted. 

"Good  morning,  my  good  little  fellow,"  the 
Sudya  said,  turning  his  nervous  soft  gray  eyes  upon 
me.  "I  hope  you  are  feeling  better  now";  and  he 
smiled  graciously. 

I  faltered  some  words  of  thanks. 

The  girl,  standing  with  the  ball  in  her  hand, 
looked  at  me  with  curiosity.  My  eyes  met  hers 
and  my  embarrassment  increased. 

"Come  nearer,"  and  the  Sudya  pointed  at  a 
chair  by  his  side.  ' '  What  is  your  name  ? " 

"Israel  Abramowitch." 

The  Judge's  long,  blond-bearded  face  grew 
slightly  pale,  and  he  turned  it  from  me  just  a  trifle. 
"Yes — so  you  told  me  before." 

"Who  is  your  father?"  he  asked  after  a  short 
silence. 

"I  have  no  father." 

"Your  mother?" 

"I  have  none." 

"Where  is  your  home?" 

"My  home  burned  down." 

"Where  do  you  come  from?" 

I  mentioned  my  native  place. 

Again  he  was  silent  for  so  long  a  time  that  I 
thought  he  was  displeased  with  me.  But  when  he 
spoke  his  voice  reassured  me. 

"I  lived  in  your  town  for  some  time — perhaps 
you  do  not  remember  me.  I  was  Sledevatel. 


I  Fall  Among  Gentiles  55 

I  must  have  known   all   your  people.     Who  was 
your  father?" 

"Yudel  Abramowitch." 

The  Sudya  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  for  a  few 
seconds  covered  his  eyes  and  high  forehead,  which 
action  I  thought  was  by  way  of  straining  his  mem- 
ory to  recall  my  father;  and  clearing  his  throat  he 
said:  "Yes,  I  remember  your  father  well.  Er — he 
used  to  come  to  my  house  quite  often  and  I  also 
called  at  his  a  number  of  times." 

Pride  filled  my  heart.  This  illustrious  personage 
in  my  father's  house ! 

The  Judge  again  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes 
and  forehead,  and  throwing  one  leg  over  the  other 
and  nibbling  at  his  long,  pink  finger-nails  he 
added:  "That's  right.  Your  father  died  eight  or 
nine  years  ago.  What  has  become  of  your 
mother?" 

Again  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes.  "My  mother 
died,"  I  responded  lugubriously;  but  just  then  my 
eyes  fell  upon  the  girl,  who  was  still  regarding  me 
with  absorbed  interest,  and  with  a  throbbing  heart 
I  added:  "Yes,  she  died  in  misery  and  poverty, 
and  as  I  had  no  relatives  or  friends  to  take  care 
of  me  I  was  sent  to  a  charity  school  and  procured 
my  meals  every  day  in  a  different  family." 

He  asked  some  more  questions  about  the  fire 
and  my  escape.  Then  he  resumed  absent-mind- 
edly: "Where  do  you  expect  to  go  from  here?" 

"  Why,  I'll  go  to  a  Jewish  community  and  resume 


56  The  Fugitive 

my  'day-eating'  and  study  the  Talmud";  and  I 
added  gloomily:  "  I  have  no  other  place  to  go  to." 

The  little  girl  came  up  to  her  father  and  slipped 
her  arms  around  his  neck;  her  blond  curls  fell  softly 
about  his  shoulders.  I  thought  I  detected  tears 
in  her  eyes. 

After  my  last  answer  the  Judge  seemed  to  be 
lost  in  thought.  I  stood  with  bowed  head  waiting 
for  him  to  speak  again. 

"How  would  you  like  to  stay  in  this  house, 
Israel?"  he  asked  after  a  while.  "You  will  have 
the  same  teacher  who  gives  instructions  to  my 
Katia.  Isn't  Feodor  Maximowitch  a  good  teacher, 
golubtchick?"  His  daughter  answered  by  tighten- 
ing her  arms.  "  You  will  be  clothed  and  taken  care 
of  as  my  own  child  until  you  grow  old  enough  to 
choose  for  yourself." 

Could  I  remain  in  the  house  of  a  goi,  even  though 
he  offered  me  all  these  things  and  asked  nothing 
in  return?  I  hesitated.  Instantly  the  Talmud- 
Torah  appeared  before  my  imagination,  and  I 
recalled  the  tattered  clothes  which  I  had  hitherto 
worn,  the  humiliating  system  of  "day-eating,"  the 
grim  poverty  of  the  people  about  me.  In  contrast, 
there  was  the  kind  gentleman  who  now  spoke 
to  me  as  if  I  were  his  equal,  the  beautiful  house 
and  the  richly  furnished  rooms,  fine  clothes  and 
the  best  of  food,  a  teacher  to  instruct  me  in  Rus- 
sian literature  and  perhaps  even  French — which  I 
then  imagined  to  be  the  language  of  angels.  Rais- 


I  Fall  Among  Gentiles  57 

ing  my  eyes,  I  found  Katia's  gaze  fixed  at  me  as 
if  she  were  asking  me  to  accept  her  father's  offer. 
Could  I  do  anything  but  stay? 


CHAPTER  VIII 
I  AM  HAPPY 

WHEN  I  fully  recovered,  autumn,  Russian  autumn, 
had  fairly  set  in.  Zamok,  as  my  benefactor's  estate 
was  called,  stood  isolated  from  the  rest  of  the  world 
by  vast  stretches  of  snow-covered  plains,  like  a 
single  ship  on  the  ocean.  The  nearest  village  was 
three-quarters  of  a  mile  away,  and  the  nearest  town, 
which  had  no  more  than  four  hundred  inhabitants, 
was  a  distance  of  about  twenty  miles.  Had  it  not 
been  for  the  peasants  and  Jews  who  came  to  attend 
trials  or  settle  their  disputes  before  the  Sudya  (for 
his  residence  was  also  his  court-house),  Zamok  would 
have  been  as  secluded  and  unfrequented  as  an  undis- 
covered island.  Mr.  Bialnick  seemed  to  be  averse 
to  society,  and  appeared  to  enjoy  nothing  except 
his  child's  company.  My  teacher  accounted  for 
the  Judge's  excessive  melancholy  by  his  grief  for 
his  wife,  who  had  died  about  a  year  and  a  half 
before.  However,  I  did  not  feel  lonesome.  For 
besides  Katia — with  whom  I  would  not  have  felt 
lonesome  had  we  been  the  only  beings  on  a  deserted 
island — there  was  Feodor  Maximo  witch  Kremlin, 
our  teacher;  Olga  Ossipovna  Shtchedrin,  Katia's 

58 


I  Am  Happy  59 

governess;  Vinitzki,  the  court  clerk;  and  a  number 
of  good  jolly  servants. 

Katia  had  come  to  be  like  a  loving  younger 
sister  to  me.  The  kindness,  the  simplicity,  the 
sympathy  of  this  mere  child  of  thirteen  awoke  all 
that  was  best  in  me — my  emotions,  imagination, 
energy,  ambition.  Whether  in  the  house  or  out, 
throwing  snowballs  or  skating,  I  had  to  be  at  her 
side.  The  first  few  months  she  would  sometimes, 
though  innocently,  make  fun  of  my  pronunciation, 
which  lacked  the  sonorous  Russian  ring.  She 
would  slap  and  scold  me  and  mock  my  talk,  and 
all  this  gave  me  delight.  Both  of  us  seemed  to 
feel  instinctively  that  her  father  would  not  have 
us  too  intimate ;  and  so  in  her  father's  presence  she 
gave  no  signs  of  the  friendship  which  existed  between 
us,  and  I  likewise  assumed  a  distant  manner. 

Continued  happiness  is  stagnation:  a  life  of  suf- 
fering is  adventurous  and  interesting.  The  winter 
glided  by  quietly,  with  no  special  event  to  break  its 
monotony.  Mr.  Kremlin  was  a  good  teacher,  and 
I,  though  frequently  hampered  by  my  natural 
tendency  to  do  my  lessons  superficially,  made  rapid 
progress  in  the  Russian  language.  Though  I 
learned  little  of  the  technical  rules  of  grammar,  I 
acquired  an  extensive  vocabulary,  which  enabled 
me  to  turn  my  awakening  sentiments  into  verse; 
all  of  which,  of  course,  were  dedicated  to  Katia. 

That  spring  my  feelings  budded  and  blossomed. 
I  did  not  stop  to  analyse  my  new  sensations.  I 


6o  The  Fugitive 

was  merely  aware  that  my  imagination,  my  thoughts, 
my  every-day  existence  was  brighter,  and  that  my 
blood  ran  warmer  and  faster.  All  nature  seemed 
to  share  in  my  gladness;  the  birds  seemed  to  have 
more  cheerful  notes,  and  the  fields,  the  meadows, 
the  forest,  the  very  blades  of  grass  never  before 
wore  such  a  green  as  they  put  on  that  spring. 
Scarcely  a  year  from  "  day-eating"  and  the  wretched 
Talmud-Torah,  and  everything  connected  with  the 
past  seemed  to  be  effaced  from  my  memory. 

Occasionally  I  would  think  of  Ephraim.  Where 
was  he?  What  was  he  doing?  What  would  he 
think  of  my  living  in  a  gentile  family  and  casting 
our  Holy  Law  aside?  And  what  would  he  say  to 
my  being  fond  of  a  girl,  and  a  gentile  girl  at  that  ? 

Sometimes  I  would  tremble  at  the  thought  that 
I  was  gradually  drifting  away  from  Judaism. 
What  would  my  mother  have  said  to  this  ?  At  the 
thought  of  her  I  would  shudder  for  shame;  and 
often  I  decided  to  steal  away  at  night  and  never 
come  back.  But  Katia !  Katia,  with  those  long, 
blond  curls,  which  she  began  to  wear  in  a  braid  this 
spring — with  those  smiling,  sparkling  eyes — with 
those  tender,  teasing  ways — Katia  !  How  could  I  go 
and  leave  her  behind  me  ?  I  knew  that  she  was  a 
Shikselke  (a  little  gentile  girl)  and  I  a  poor  wander- 
ing Jewish  orphan,  but  I  was  so  happy  when  she 
teased  me  or  ordered  me  about  that  I  forgot  my 
race  and  my  faith.  Besides,  I  was  enjoying  my 
studies  immensely,  and  new-born  thoughts  began 


I  Am  Happy  61 

to  sprout  in  my  brain.  I  began  to  have  aspira- 
tions; my  ambition  stirred  me  to  more  activity;  I 
began  to  compare  conditions  and  situations;  I 
appreciated  the  beauty  of  Japhet  and  loathed  the 
tents  of  Shem. 

The  Sudya  treated  me  as  kindly  and  generously 
as  ever.  It  is  true,  I  observed  him  frown  when  he 
found  Katia  leaning  on  my  arm  as  we  read  one  of 
Krilloff 's  fables ;  but  otherwise  he  showed  me  almost 
paternal  affection.  There  was  a  benign  expression 
on  his  face,  and  his  soft  gray  eyes  seemed  to  have 
smiles  concealed  in  them,  despite  the  depressing 
gloom  that  always  hovered  over  him.  He  smiled 
very  often — he  very  rarely  laughed;  but  what 
sadness  in  his  smile ! 

That  spring  I  also  noticed  that  the  delicate  skin 
of  his  fair  cheeks  was  becoming  marred  here  and 
there  by  fine  lines,  and  that  his  nose  was  turning 
purple.  And  one  time,  as  I  was  about  to  pass 
through  the  dining-room,  I  found  him  standing 
by  the  sideboard  with  a  decanter  of  rum  in  his 
hand.  I  started  to  turn  back,  but  he  noticed  me, 
and  replacing  the  decanter  he  stammered  con- 
fusedly: "You  may  stay  here,  Israel."  On  another 
occasion  I  found  him  reclining  unconscious  in  his 
large  arm-chair  and  the  same  decanter  of  rum  on 
a  little  round  table  at  his  elbow.  At  first,  fright 
seized  me.  I  thought  he  was  dead.  But  I  soon 
discovered  differently.  He  was  drunk.  I  locked 
the  door  and,  moving  on  tiptoe,  adjusted  him 


62  The  Fugitive 

comfortably  without  arousing  him.  I  shivered  lest 
Katia,  who  had  gone  with  her  governess  to  visit 
a  neighbouring  hamlet,  should  find  her  father  in 
this  state.  Leaving  the  door  locked  on  the  inside, 
I  crept  out  through  a  window. 

After  this  incident  I  noticed  that  he  rode  horse- 
back, which  was  one  of  his  favourite  sports,  less 
frequently  than  usual,  and  he  would  sleep  more 
often  in  the  daytime.  I  watched  him,  not  from 
curiosity,  but  in  order  to  hide  his  drunkenness  from 
his  child;  and  to  do  this  I  had  recourse  to  all  sorts 
of  devices.  Innocence  is  easily  deceived.  Katia 
little  suspected  the  truth  about  her  father. 

During  the  summer  Katia  took  a  vacation  from 
her  books,  but  I  studied  even  more  assiduously 
than  before.  My  ambition  was  rising  every  day. 
Katia  had  once  told  me,  when  we  were  chatting 
all  alone  in  the  garden  in  the  rear  of  the  house, 
that  she  would  marry  no  one  but  a  great  man — as 
great  as  Nekrasoff  or  Pushkin  or  Lermontoff.  I 
remember  distinctly  that  I  felt  dizzy  for  a  while 
after  she  had  said  this,  and  that,  in  spite  of  my 
repeated  efforts  to  speak,  my  words  remained  stuck 
in  my  throat.  However,  when  a  little  later  she 
told  me  I  was  to  be  a  great  poet  like  Lermontoff, 
I  felt  my  blood  rushing  to  my  face  and  a  peculiar 
thrill  shot  through  all  my  frame.  I  sat  opposite 
her  and  gazed  and  gazed  into  her  translucent  eyes, 
frank  in  their  childish  innocence.  Then  I  was 
seized  with  the  consciousness  of  my  own  insignifi- 


I  Am  Happy  63 

cance,  and  I  felt  so  hopelessly  untalented  that  I 
abruptly  ran  away  to  my  room  and  locked  the 
door.  How  could  I  become  a  poet  like  Nekrasoff 
or  Pushkin  or  Lermontoff  ?  And  how  could  I  ever 
marry  Katia  without  being  like  one  of  them  ?  And 
that  night,  when  Katia  was  long  in  bed  and  every- 
body else  at  Zamok  slept  peacefully,  when  even  the 
frogs  had  long  ceased  their  disagreeable  croaking 
and  the  stillness  was  so  intense  that  I  heard  my 
lamp  burning,  I  sat  over  my  books  until  the  early 
blushes  of  morning  turned  the  window-panes  ash- 
colour. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  END  OF  HAPPINESS 

I  DID  not  swerve  from  my  purpose  to  become  a 
great  man,  and  pored  over  my  books  arduously. 
My  instructor  was  highly  pleased  with  my  progress. 
I  could  see  his  face  beaming  with  genuine  delight 
as  I  recited  my  lessons.  "Excellent,"  "splendid," 
"  very  good, "  he  would  remark,  pacing  up  and  down 
the  room  as  I  was  reading  a  composition  or  reciting 
a  page  of  Cicero.  Only  half  a  year  before  Katia 
had  been  far  ahead  of  me  in  composition,  but  now 
I  was  reading  the  masterpieces  of  Russian  literature, 
while  she  still  used  a  Khrestomatia — a  book  of 
selections.  Mr.  Kremlin  told  me  that  if  I  would 
study  assiduously  till  the  following  summer  I  could 
easily  take  the  examinations  of  the  fourth  and 
perhaps  of  the  fifth — he  referred  to  gymnasium 
grades.  Of  course  I  wished  to  go  to  the  gymnasium 
and  there  study  harder  and  harder,  that  I  might 
become  a  great  man  like  Nekrasoff  or  Pushkin  or 
Lermontoff  and — marry  Katia. 

And  Katia  would  listen  to  Mr.  Kremlin's  praises 
of  me  without  the  least  jealousy.  When  the 
teacher  was  gone  she  would  put  her  hand  on  my 
shoulder  in  her  childish  way  and,  looking  into  my 

64 


The  End  of  Happiness  65 

eyes,  would  say:  "Israel,  you  will  go  to  the  gym- 
nasium the  coming  year  and  take  away  all  the 
prizes.  I  am  sure  you  will  get  a  gold  medal  on 
graduation.  My  Cousin  Mishka  got  one,  and  he  is 
not  half  as  bright  as  you.  Oh,  what  a  great  man 
you  will  be  some  day !  Your  picture  will  be  in 
the  Novosti  and  in  the  Sviet  and  in  the  Novi 
Vremia,  and  you  will  be  so  proud,  with  your  head 
erect — you  will  not  want  to  talk  to  me."  Here  I 
shut  her  mouth  with  the  palm  of  my  hand.  "You 
mean  you  will  be  proud,"  I  would  retort  enviously, 
with  no  little  rancour  in  my  heart,  "  and  go  away  to 
your  relatives  in  Moscow  or  Kieff  and  mix  with 
colonels  and  generals,  and  you  will  be  ashamed 
to  talk  to  me."  I  really  meant  every  word  I  said, 
because  Judge  Biamick  talked  of  being  promoted 
or  installed  either  in  Kieff  or  Moscow,  where  most 
of  his  near  relatives  lived. 

And  so  life  passed  till  fall  had  come  again. 
Again  the  sky  was  constantly  overcast  with  heavy 
dark  clouds  that  dripped  cold  drops;  again  drizzly 
showers  dismally  washed  the  window-panes;  again 
heaps  of  withered  leaves  lay  around  trunks  of 
trees;  again  flower-stalks  stood  like  gravestones 
where  once  was  glory;  again  the  sighing  winds 
howled  and  moaned  drearily. 

One  gloomy  afternoon,  while  the  Sudya  was  in 
the  court-room  administering  justice  to  peasants, 
Katia  and  I  sat  in  her  father's  study  reading  together 
and  engaging  in  such  chat  as  made  me  at  the  same 


66  The  Fugitive 

time  jealous  and  happy.  We  were  on  a  couch  near 
a  window.  Katia  sat  with  one  foot  under  her  and 
the  other  hanging  down,  her  lesson-book  in  her 
lap.  We  ceased  talking  for  a  minute  or  two,  while 
we  gazed  at  the  rain,  which  was  becoming  mixed 
with  melting  snow. 

"Papa  said  he  is  sure  to  be  promoted  and  will 
get  an  appointment  in  Kieff.  You  will  go  with  us, 
won't  you,  Israel?"  She  said  this  abstractedly 
as  she  looked  through  the  window  at  the  snow, 
which  was  becoming  more  and  more  noticeable  in 
the  falling  rain. 

I  swallowed  a  lump;  my  emotions  almost  throt- 
tled me.  How  innocently  she  asked  me  this ! 
She  could  see  no  difference  in  our  stations:  to  her 
we  were  equals.  I  began  to  realise  now  more  than 
ever  that  I  was  a  vagabond,  a  mere  beggar.  Will 
I  go  with  them?  My  tears  rushed  to  my  eyes. 
Will  I  go  with  them? — as  if  I  belonged  to  their 
circle,  a  member  of  her  family. 

It  was  all  I  could  do  to  refrain  from  putting  these 
incoherent  thoughts  into  words.  She  looked  greatly 
surprised  at  my  silence.  My  emotions  suddenly 
found  expression  in  tears — I  ever  cried  as  readily 
as  a  girl.  I  turned  and  covered  my  face  with  both 
hands. 

"Israel,"  she  implored,  attempting  to  remove 
my  hands,  "  why  do  you  cry  ?  What  did  I  say  that 
hurt  you?"  And  she  clung  to  my  hands,  removing 
finger  by  finger. 


The  End  of  Happiness  67 

"Listen,  Katia,"  I  blurted  out  passionately. 
"  I  shall  study  day  and  night  until  I  become  a  great 
man — as  great  a  man  as  you  like;  and  then — then 

— ah,  then "  I  became  conscious  of  what 

I  was  about  to  say  and  dropped  my  head  in  despair. 

"Oh,  you  foolish  Israel,"  she  said,  raising  my 
head  by  the  chin,  "then  I'll  marry  you." 

How  candidly  and  naively  she  uttered  these 
words !  Without  the  faintest  blush,  without  the 
least  excitement,  with  the  simplest  understanding 
of  what  she  said. 

Impulsively,  without  being  fully  conscious  of 
what  I  was  doing,  I  threw  my  arm  around  her  neck 
and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth  again  and  again. 

"Katia!  Katia!" 

It  was  Judge  Bialnick's  voice  that  called  me  to 
my  senses;  it  sounded  stern  and  harsh — almost 
cruel. 

I  raised  my  eyes  frightfully  and  beheld  Katia's 
father  standing  in  the  doorway,  with  a  relentless 
expression  on  his  countenance. 

"Katia  !"  he  called  again;  and  he  stood  cold  and 
erect  until  Katia,  with  downcast  eyes,  walked  past 
him  into  the  adjoining  room.  Then  he  also  turned 
around  and  walked  out,  leaving  me  alone  with  my 
head  drooped  over  my  chest,  and  tears — large, 
boiling  tears — burning  my  cheeks  as  they  rolled 
down  and  dropped  upon  my  shirt  and  vest. 


CHAPTER  X 
I  BID  FAREWELL  TO  ZAMOK 

I  IMMEDIATELY  repaired  to  my  room  and  locked 
myself  in.  My  present  happiness  was  gone,  and 
the  magnificent  castles  I  had  built  in  the  air  were 
all  shattered.  The  dreary  weather  outside  added 
gloom  to  my  misery.  The  rain  was  now  completely 
changed  to  large  flakes  of  snow  that  disappeared  as 
they  fell  upon  the  muddy  ground.  The  Sudya's 
stern  countenance  stood  before  my  mind's  eye; 
his  harsh  voice  was  still  ringing  in  my  ears.  I 
brooded  and  reflected,  though  nothing  definite 
shaped  itself  in  my  mind.  I  thought  of  Katia,  of 
how  the  Sudya  glanced  at  her  as  she  walked  across 
the  room  and  past  him  with  downcast  eyes,  and  I 
shivered.  I  had  made  her  suffer  on  my  account. 
This  thought  lacerated  my  heart  and  I  writhed 
with  shame. 

I  sat  brooding  till  it  grew  dark,  but  could  not 
shape  any  definite  plan.  A  knock  interrupted  my 
sad  deliberation.  I  opened  the  door,  and  Katia's 
governess  entered  with  a  little  parcel  in  her  hand 
and  placed  it  on  the  table  before  me. 

"The  Sudya  sends  this  to  you,"  she  said  briefly; 

68 


I  Bid  Farewell  to  Zamok  69 

and  bidding  me  a  cold   "good   evening"   left  the 
room. 

I  regarded  the  parcel  for  several  minutes  before  I 
could  summon  the  courage  to  open  it ;  I  knew  abso- 
lutely what  message  it  brought  to  me.  I  opened 
it  with  trembling  hands,  and  found  a  roll  of  ten- 
rouble  bills  and  the  following  note  in  the  Sudya's 
pointed  handwriting: 

"  My  Dear  Israel  Abramowitch:  I  hope  the  amount 
I  herewith  send  you  will  enable  you  to  make  a  start 
in  life.  Should  you  wish  to  continue  with  your 
studies  at  some  school,  keep  me  informed  as  to 
where  you  are,  and  I  shall  amply  assist  you. 
"With  sincere  kindness, 

"I   remain   ever  helpful  to   you, 
"ALEXIS  M.  BIALNICK." 

I  glanced  contemptuously  at  the  ten-rouble  bills, 
and  then  for  the  time  forgot  them.  Up  to  this 
minute  I  had  been  able  to  reach  no  decision.  The 
Sudya's  note  left  but  one  course  open  to  me — I 
must  leave  and  leave  at  once.  My  frame  shook  as  I 
thought  of  going  away.  Never  again  see  Katia's 
face !  Never  again  hear  her  voice !  Never  again 
feel  her  arm  on  my  shoulder  ! 

I  stayed  up  late  that  night,  pondering  and  pon- 
dering upon  my  recklessness  and  folly.  When  at 
length  I  decided  to  lie  down,  all  of  the  household 
had  long  been  asleep.  I  opened  the  door  of  my 
room  and  glanced  at  that  of  Katia's.  A  glimmering 


70  The  Fugitive 

light,  which  always  burned  at  night  in  her  chamber, 
peeped  in  a  thin  line  from  under  the  door.  My 
heart  beat  like  a  thousand  hammers  as  my  thoughts 
travelled  back  to  the  scene  in  the  afternoon.  I 
thought  of  her  father,  and  a  fierce  desire  for  revenge 
arose  in  my  heart.  For  a  moment  I  had  forgotten 
the  gratitude  I  owed  him  for  his  kindness  and  wished 
only  I  could  do  him  harm.  But  another  moment 
brought  me  to  my  normal  senses.  I  shuddered  at 
the  atrocity  of  my  momentary  thought,  and  I 
hated  myself  for  my  ingratitude.  I  quickly  un- 
dressed and  threw  myself  upon  the  bed. 

But  late  as  it  was,  sleep  would  not  come.  My 
sordid  childhood  haunted  my  brain — the  Talmud- 
Torah,  the  cruel  teachers,  the  miserable  boys,  and 
then  a  picture  of  my  mother  on  her  death-bed.  My 
thoughts  took  a  different  turn.  What  would  my 
mother  say  to  my  staying  with  gentiles  and  aban- 
doning the  commandments  of  my  faith?  What 
does  the  Talmud  say  ?  Ah,  the  Talmud !  I  had 
so  distinguished  myself  in  the  study  of  Hebrew 
and  the  Talmud,  and  now  I  had  flung  them  aside ! 
My  teachers  had  predicted  a  great  future  for  me — 
the  mantle  of  the  rabbis — and  now  I  had  strayed 
off  toward  a  different  goal !  The  vague  remem- 
brance of  my  runaway  brother  came  back  to  me. 
Where  could  he  be?  Would  I  ever  find  him?  I 
tried  to  recall  his  features,  but  I  could  not  see 
them  distinctly.  The  flimsy  threads  that  held  my 
mind  to  the  past  strengthened;  one  thought  sug- 


I  Bid  Farewell  to  Zamofc  71 

gested  another;  each  strand  was  intertwisted  with 
another.  Was  it  not  this  same  Alexis  Bialnick 
who  had  been  Sledevatel  in  our  town,  and  in  whose 
house  my  brother  had  taken  refuge  for  a  while  ?  I 
pressed  my  forehead,  hoping  to  wring  out  all  that 
my  brain  contained  regarding  my  brother.  Yes. 
What  was  the  rumour  that  circulated  through  the 
town  when  my  father  was  arrested?  Ah,  now  I 
recalled  it  clearly:  my  brother  was  in  love  with 
Mr.  Bialnick's  niece  and  was  going  to  marry  her  at 
the  time  my  father  was  imprisoned.  And  I? — I? 
I  pressed  my  temples  harder,  harder;  I  wished  to 
grasp  the  situation  more  fully.  I?  Why,  I  was 
following  in  my  brother's  footsteps.  I  also  was 
forgetting  my  mother's  wishes  and  the  laws  of  my 
people. 

Thus  I  tormented  my  brain  for  an  hour  or  more, 
trembling  feverishly  all  the  while,  till  my  present 
situation  recurred  to  my  mind.  Since  I  must  leave 
the  house,  why  not  do  so  surreptitiously,  and  thus 
save  myself  much  pain  and  degradation? 

I  sat  up  in  bed  and  listened.  Next  to  my  room 
was  that  of  the  governess;  steady  snores  came  from 
it.  A  thought  began  to  shape  itself  in  my  brain; 
my  pulse  quickened;  my  heart  throbbed  violently. 
Another  sound  reached  me — the  flat,  barefoot  steps 
of  a  servant-girl  in  a  distant  room.  Except  for 
these  two  sounds,  the  house  was  in  dead  silence. 

After  I  had  waited  a  while  I  dressed  quickly 
without  making  the  least  noise.  I  opened  the  door 


72  The  Fugitive 

of  my  room  quietly ;  the  reflection  of  the  faint  light 
from  the  room  into  which  mine  opened  fell  upon 
the  roll  of  money  on  my  table.  I  turned  around 
and  looked  at  it  a  moment  thoughtlessly.  I  went 
to  the  table,  took  the  bills  in  my  hand,  remained 
standing  a  few  seconds  abstractedly,  and  then,  as 
if  automatically,  flung  the  money  back  upon  the 
table.  I  was  leaving  the  room,  when  I  chanced  to 
thrust  my  hand  into  my  pocket.  I  did  not  have  a 
single  copper — not  even  a  copeck.  I  went  back 
to  the  table,  took  a  few  bills  from  the  roll,  and 
pocketed  them. 

I  cast  a  last  glance  at  my  room  and  came  out 
into  the  next  one.  I  remained  standing  in  hesi- 
tation. The  glimmering  light  from  under  Katia's 
door — it  made  me  quiver  in  every  nerve;  my 
blood  rushed  fiercely  through  my  veins.  A  thought 
flashed  into  my  feverish  brain.  I  held  my  breath 
and  listened  again;  loud  snoring  came  from  the 
governess's  room.  How  my  heart  throbbed  and 
beat  and  hammered  !  I  turned  the  knob  of  Katia's 
door,  and  the  next  instant  I  was  inside  her  room. 

There  before  me  lay  sweet  Katia,  with  her  face 
ceilingward,  faintly  illumined  by  the  light  of  the 
small  lamp;  her  beautiful  lips  were  slightly  parted, 
and  one  bare  hand  and  arm  lay  on  the  coverlet. 
She  slept  quietly  and  peacefully.  Her  head  slightly 
turned  and  her  crimsoned  lips  moved,  as  if  she 
smacked  them.  I  gazed  at  her  eagerly,  rapturously. 
A  sound  in  the  governess's  room,  which  was  con- 


I  Bid  Farewell  to  Zamok  73 

nected  with  Katia's  and  the  door  of  which  stood 
ajar,  made  my  flesh  creep.  Soon  stillness  was 
again  restored;  only  the  heavy  breathing  of  the 
governess  and  the  swishing  of  the  snow  and  sleet 
against  the  walls  and  window-panes  were  heard. 
"I  must  go — I  must  go,"  I  said  to  myself.  But 
Katia's  white  face,  her  mass  of  dishevelled  hair 
over  the  pillow,  almost  persuaded  me  to  change 
my  plan  and  wait  till  morning,  when  I  should  be 
able  to  hear  Katia  say  "good-by."  But  I  could 
not  wait.  I  had  to  go. 

I  knelt  before  her  bed  and  gazed  breathlessly  at 
the  sweet  face  before  me.  I  was  almost  dazed.  I 
leaned  my  head  against  the  cold  edge  of  her  bed, 
dumb  in  silent  worship.  She  began  to  stir,  and 
the  hand  that  rested  upon  the  coverlet  slipped  down, 
as  if  she  offered  it  me  to  kiss.  I  pressed  my  lips  upon 
her  fingers  with  all  my  boyish  passion.  Once  more 
I  gazed  at  her  faintly  illumined  face,  and  then  on 
tiptoe  I  stole  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XI 
THE  MYSTERY  REVEALED 

OUTSIDE  it  was  dark,  cold,  dreary,  with  a  bitter 
wind-driven  sleet.  A  dog  growled  in  his  kennel 
as  I  passed  him,  but  after  springing  out  he  seemed 
to  recognise  me  and  quietly  disappeared  within  his 
shelter.  I  found  the  gate  fastened,  so  I  had  to 
climb  over  the  high  barbed- wire  fence  which  enclosed 
the  yard,  to  the  great  injury  of  my  clothes.  On 
reaching  the  road  I  was  undecided  which  direction 
to  take.  Darkness  was  all  about  me;  a  fearful 
sadness  possessed  me;  and  as  I  advanced  a  few 
steps  an  enigmatic  power  was  pulling  me  back. 
But  I  struck  out  on  the  slushy  road  east  at  my 
fastest  walk.  Gusts  of  sleet  lashed  my  face,  and 
my  feet  sank  to  the  ankles  at  every  step.  I  tramped 
on  and  on — whither  ?  My  head  was  crammed  with 
fragmentary  thoughts — of  my  erstwhile  happiness, 
of  my  folly,  of  my  ingratitude — and  my  heart  sank 
with  shame  of  myself.  Instantly,  however,  reason 
came  to  my  defense :  I  had  committed  no  sin ;  I  had 
done  harm  to  no  one;  I  loved  Katia  as  a  sister, 
and  why  should  I  not  kiss  her  ?  What  harm  is  there 
in  a  kiss,  that  because  of  one  the  Sudya  should 
notify  me  to  leave  ?  I  thought  of  the  money  I  had 

74 


The  Mystery  Revealed  75 

taken;  it  seemed  to  burn  in  my  pocket.  I  pulled 
out  the  notes  and  flung  them  fiercely  into  the  mud, 
and  plodded  on  my  way  with  a  quieter  mind. 

I  tramped  on  through  a  seemingly  endless  stretch 
of  mud-and-slush-covered  land  till  at  length  I 
reached  a  small  village,  one  of  those  entirely  occu- 
pied by  muzhiks  (peasants),  with  barnlike  houses 
and  houselike  barns.  I  would  have  sought  shelter 
in  one  of  the  hedged-in  huts,  but  all  the  dogs  of 
this  little  community  set  up  such  a  loud  barking 
that  I  was  glad  to  get  out  of  the  village  with  my  life. 
After  another  half -hour  of  the  heavy  road  I  caught 
the  faint  lights  of  another  village.  By  this  time 
I  was  almost  ready  to  drop  from  sheer  exhaustion. 
I  was  numb  to  my  very  bones  from  the  damp  cold, 
my  legs  were  so  fagged  that  one  would  hardly 
follow  the  other,  and  my  face  stung  as  if  it  had  been 
lashed  with  a  bunch  of  nettles.  But  I  struggled 
desperately,  blindly  on  till  I  reached  the  village, 
which  was  one  long  and  extremely  narrow  alley. 
I  stopped  before  the  first  hut,  which  stood  behind 
a  broad  rustic  gate,  and  from  which  a  glimmering 
light  shone  forth,  determined  to  beg  a  dry  spot 
for  the  rest  of  the  night.  As  I  came  up  to  the  gate 
several  dogs  within  began  such  a  ferocious  barking 
that  I  paused,  fearing  to  risk  what  little  life  remained 
in  me.  Recalling  a  kind  of  exorcism  I  knew  when 
a  child,  I  tried  it  on  these  raging  animals.  But 
they  seemed  not  to  mind  my  incantations.  One 
jumped  over  the  gate,  and  the  rest  made  as  if  to 


76  The  Fugitive 

follow.  In  this  critical  situation  I  thought  the 
best  exorcism  would  be  to  cry  for  help.  I  did  so, 
and  a  peasant,  half-naked,  opened  the  door  of  the 
hut. 

"Who's  that?"  he  asked,  as  he  quieted  the  dogs. 

I  told  him  that  I  was  a  wanderer  and  wished  to 
have  lodging  overnight. 

"Bosje  Moi  [my  God],"  he  said,  crossing  himself. 
"On  a  night  like  this!"  And  after  he  had 
scrutinised  me  he  murmured  to  himself:  "He's  no 
thief — only  a  little  Jew." 

"I  deny  shelter  to  no  one,  be  he  Christian  or 
Jew,"  he  said,  as  he  opened  the  gate  for  me. 

I  entered  his  hut.  It  was  of  the  same  style  as 
those  of  most  muzhiks:  one  square,  earth-floored 
room,  the  unplastered  walls  and  low  ceiling  of  which 
were  black  with  smoke.  One-fourth  of  it  occupied 
by  a  large  brick  oven ;  another  fourth  taken  up  by  a 
large  bed  which  was  commonly  known  as  the  "  family 
bed";  and  the  remaining  space  filled  by  a  long, 
unpainted  table  with  a  rough  bench  along  each 
side  of  it,  a  pail  of  water,  a  manger  for  the  pigs, 
and  a  wooden  dish  for  the  rabbits  that  were  crowded 
together  in  a  corner.  An  oil-lamp  burned  before  a 
small  image  of  Christ,  placed  beside  the  window,  or 
rather  the  small  square  hole  which  served  as 
one. 

A  suffocating  stench  pervaded  the  room ;  however, 
the  warmth  brought  new  life  into  my  benumbed 
body.  Four  or  five  of  the  occupants  of  the  bed 


The  Mystery  Revealed  77 

raised  their  heads,  and  I  noticed  by  the  light  of  the 
oil-lamp  that  they  were  of  both  sexes. 

The  good  muzhik  set  black  bread,  salt,  and  water 
before  me,  and  asked  me  whether  or  not  I  was 
hungry.  I  thanked  him  gratefully,  and  said  all  I 
cared  for  was  a  place  to  sleep. 

"There,  Sjidotchick  [little  Jew],  is  a  warm  spot," 
he  said,  pointing  with  his  finger  at  the  top  of  the 
oven.  And  he  unceremoniously  raised  the  large 
blanket  and  crept  under  by  the  side  of  his  family. 

I  climbed  upon  the  high  oven  and  was  going  to 
lie  down,  when  I  noticed  something  stirring  there. 
And  I  was  still  more  startled  to  find  a  partner — a 
girl.  I  was  going  to  slip  back  to  the  floor,  but  she 
said,  "There  is  plenty  of  room  here,"  and  inno- 
cently moved  aside.  The  morality  which  had  been 
inculcated  in  me  did  not  permit  me  to  accept  her 
courtesy,  and  I  offered  as  an  excuse  that  it  was  too 
warm.  So  I  lay  down  on  one  of  the  benches. 

The  family  soon  fell  asleep  again,  but,  exhausted 
though  I  was,  sleep  would  not  come  to  my  eyes. 
My  mind  followed  a  train  of  feverish  thoughts 
aroused  by  the  events  of  the  afternoon  and  night; 
and  besides,  even  had  my  mind  not  been  active,  I 
would  have  been  kept  awake  by  the  deep  groans  that 
arose  near  me,  which,  however,  did  not  seem  to 
disturb  the  other  occupants  of  the  hut.  After  my 
eyes  had  become  accustomed  to  the  semidarkness  I 
discovered  a  man  lying  upon  a  truss  of  straw  on 
the  ground  but  a  few  feet  away  from  me.  The 


78  The  Fugitive 

dim  light  before  the  image  of  Christ  cast  a  yellowish 
glow  upon  his  emaciated  countenance.  He  lay 
covered  with  a  tattered  sheepskin  coat;  his  head 
rested  upon  a  dirty  straw  cushion.  His  eyes  were 
closed,  his  mouth  half  open,  and  he  was  breath- 
ing slowly,  a  groan  coming  forth  with  every 
breath. 

"Basil!"  he  cried  out,  after  I  had  been  in  the 
hut  for  perhaps  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

Nobody  answered ;  loud  snoring  rang  through  the 
stenchy  room.  I  could  now  hear  the  man  on  the 
ground  breathing  heavily  and  tossing  about  rest- 
lessly. Several  minutes  passed. 

"Basil!"  he  cried  again  in  a  hoarse,  feeble  voice. 

The  only  answer  was  a  chorus  of  snores  from 
the  "family  bed." 

"  Basil— I— am— dying. " 

"To  the  devil !"  my  host  muttered,  as  he  jumped 
out  of  bed.  "What  do  you  want,  Michael?" 

"Brother" — Michael  made  a  hard  effort  to 
speak —  "brother,  bring  the  priest.  I  am  dying." 

Basil  scratched  his  head  as  if  undecided  what  to 
do.  He  looked  good-natured,  but  he  appeared  to 
entertain  some  doubts  as  to  whether  his  brother 
had  reached  the  point  when  a  priest  is  necessary. 
He  uttered  a  curse  good-naturedly,  as  if  his  brother's 
request  was  merely  an  every-day  jest,  and  said: 
"Oh,  Michael,  you  won't  die  yet,  and  I'll  trouble  the 
Batiushka  [little  father]  for  nothing." 

Michael    emitted    a  deep    groan.     "God    knows 


The  Mystery  Revealed  79 

whether — I'll  live  long  enough — to  see  the  sun. 
Call  the  Batiushka." 

I  shuddered.  Basil  scratched  his  head  again, 
muttered  a  few  curses  under  his  breath,  and  put 
on  his  heavy  fur  coat  and  his  sheepskin  hat.  "I 
know  you  will  trouble  the  Batiushka  for  nothing," 
he  said,  and  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

The  rest  of  the  family  paid  no  heed  to  the  dying 
man.  "My  confession — my  confession,"  he  mur- 
mured feebly,  as  he  tossed  about  convulsively  in 
the  agonies  of  death.  Once  he  rose  by  a  sudden 
impulse  to  a  sitting  posture  and  screamed:  "Oh, 
the  priest !  Confession — my  confession  !"  Nobody 
seemed  to  have  heard  him;  the  family  was  peace- 
fully snoring;  a  few  pigs  under  the  family  bed 
grunted  and  squealed  restlessly. 

It  must  have  been  a  little  before  daybreak  when 
I  heard  approaching  footsteps.  Soon  the  door 
opened,  and  Basil  entered  with  a  corpulent  old 
man,  whose  long,  white  hair  overhung  his  broad 
shoulders. 

"  Here,  Batiushka,"  Basil  said  reverentially,  point- 
ing a  finger  at  his  brother,  writhing  with  pain  on  the 
ground. 

The  Batiushka  remained  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  leaning  on  his  heavy  gold-headed 
walking-stick.  The  host  produced  a  long,  thin  lath, 
which  he  stuck  between  two  uncemented  bricks  of 
the  oven  and  then  lighted.  The  flaring  torch  cast  a 
mournful  light  over  the  whole  room,  and  brought 


8o  The  Fugitive 

out  the  cadaverous  face  of  the  dying  man  with 
ghastly  distinctness. 

"Michael,"  Basil  said  to  his  brother,  "here  is  the 
Batiushka." 

The  dying  peasant  made  an  effort  to  raise  his  head, 
but  fell  back  upon  the  truss  of  straw.  There  was 
a  convulsive  twitching  of  his  emaciated  counte- 
nance, his  unshaven  chin  trembled,  his  eyelids 
fluttered,  and  his  whole  frame  shivered. 

The  priest  crossed  himself  and  with  eyes  uplifted 
murmured:  "May  the  Father,  Son,  and  Holy 
Virgin  bring  you  salvation." 

"Batiushka,"  the  patient  began  in  a  low,  gut- 
tural voice,  his  eyes  moving  wildly — "Batiushka, 
I  wish  to  confess  before  I  die.  I  sinned  heavily — 
heavily — heavily."  Here  he  collapsed. 

"Confess  and  bring  salvation  to  your  soul." 

This  word  of  encouragement  from  the  priest 
seemed  to  give  strength  to  the  dying  man,  and 
though  shivering  violently  he  proceeded  more 
easily:  "Oh,  Batiushka,  my  great  sins  have  preyed 
upon  my  life  for  the  last  ten  years — ever  since  I 
was  seized  in  the  devil's  clutches !" 

"Confess  and  lighten  your  burdened  heart,"  the 
priest  encouraged  him  again,  making  the  sign  of 
the  cross. 

The  dying  man  seemed  to  be  so  agitated  with 
his  forthcoming  confession  that  for  some  time  he 
could  not  speak.  Then  he  resumed,  a  gasp  after 
each  choppy  sentence: 


The  Mystery  Revealed  81 

"  Batiushka,  I  wish  my  soul  to  go  up  to  God.  I 
want  to  tell  you  all  before  I  die."  Another  long 
pause.  "About  fifteen  years  ago  I  worked  for  a 
Jew.  His  name  was  Yudel  Abramo witch." 

I  sat  up  and  gasped  for  breath  at  the  mention 
of  my  father's  name. 

"He  treated  me  well,  he  did.  But  the  devil  got 
me  in  his  clutches,  and  I  took  to  drink.  My  master 
gave  me  many  warnings,  but  the  devil  would  not 
let  me  stop.  Yudel  told  me  to  leave — I  couldn't 
blame  him.  I  hung  around  the  taverns,  helped 
them  a  little,  got  plenty  of  drink."  He  paused 
again.  "I  drank  more  and  more.  I  was  kicked 
out  from  every  place.  Then  I  got  to  be  helper  to 
the  sexton  in  the  synagogue. 

One  day  a  burglary  occurred  next  to  the  sexton's 
house.  I  was  arrested.  I  was  innocent,  Batiushka. 
They  brought  me  before  Sledevatel  Bialnick.  He 
cross-examined  me.  He  could  not  get  anything 
out  of  me.  I  was  innocent  and  knew  nothing 
of  the  burglary.  We  were  alone  in  his  office — 
Bialnick  and  I.  'Michael,'  says  he  to  me,  'I'll 
have  to  indict  you.  Your  record  of  the  past 
shows  that  you  committed  this  crime.'  And 
then  says  he:  'But  I'll  help  you  and  set  you 
free  if  you'll  do  a  trifle  for  me!'  'Yes,'  says  I. 
'Do  you  know  Marianka,  the  washerwoman?' 
says  he.  I  knew  her  well;  she  was  a  pretty  girl; 
people  talked  about  her  being  Bialnick' s  mistress. 
'  I  want  you  to  go  to  her  house  quite  often, '  says 


82  The  Fugitive 

he, '  and  tell  the  people  she  is  your  mistress.'  '  Yes, ' 
says  I,  and  I  was  set  free  the  same  day." 

He  rested  again  and  then  went  on:  "A  few 
months  later  Marianka  gave  birth  to  a  child.  The 
Sledevatel  gave  me  money  for  Marianka;  when  I 
gave  it  to  her  she  took  it  and  cried.  Then  one 
day  Bialnick  called  me  to  his  office  and  asked  me 
to  own  the  bastard  as  mine.  I  did  not  object. 
What  difference  was  it  to  me?  So  everybody  said 
the  child  was  mine,  and  I  laughed.  Several  years 
passed.  I  had  plenty  to  drink  and  plenty  of  money. 
The  Sledevatel  was  never  stingy.  The  brat  grew 
like  a  sapling — the  very  image  of  Bialnick." 

For  several  minutes  he  struggled  hard  for  his 
breath.  The  priest  was  like  a  statue.  My  heart 
was  throbbing  and  my  head  was  whirling. 

"A  few  weeks  before  Easter  Bialnick  sent  for  me. 
He  asked  me  how  I  liked  being  called  the  father  of 
another  man's  child.  'Would  it  not  be  best  to  get 
rid  of  this  bastard,'  says  he — 'better  for  me, 
better  for  you  ?'  I  said  it  would.  '  Why  should  one 
not  make  an  end  of  it?'  says  he.  I  told  him  that 
would  be  a  risky  business.  'We  could  transfer  it 
to  the  Jewish  account,'  says  he.  I  did  not  under- 
stand. He  said  that  Passover  was  near,  and  didn't 
I  know  that  Jews  kill  Christian  children  for  the 
Passover.  '  Some  Jew  would  be  blamed  for  it, '  says 
he.  'Why  not  Yudel  Abramowitch ? '  I  said  he 
was  a  good  man;  he  had  been  very  good  to  me. 
'Michael,'  says  he,  'you  are  a  fool.  Don't  you 


The  Mystery  Revealed  83 

know  the  Jews  killed  our  Saviour  and  nailed  Him 
to  the  cross,  and  they  are  still  sucking  our  blood? 
Yudel  Abramowitch  is  a  bloodsucker,'  says  he. 
'He's  skinning  the  peasants  alive,  and  he  got  all 
his  money  by  his  Jew  tricks  and  has  a  mortgage 
on  all  my  property.'  All  the  time  he  had  poured 
out  glass  after  glass  of  whisky — and  oh,  Batiushka, 
I  promised  !" 

Michael  fell  back  on  the  straw  and  tossed  con- 
vulsively. 

"Goon — goon,"  the  Batiushka  encouraged  him. 
"God  will  forgive  you.  You  have  only  been  the 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  a  wicked  man." 

"Yes,  yes,  Batiushka,  only  an  instrument,  blessed 
Batiushka,"  wept  the  dying  peasant.  "  Our  Saviour 
knows  that  I  did  it  in  His  name,  as  Bialnick  told 
me " 

"Not  in  His  name,"  struck  in  the  pious  priest. 
"It  was  in  Satan's  name."  And  he  made  the  sign 
of  the  cross  over  his  breast. 

"Yes,  Batiushka,  in  the  devil's  name.  And 
while  I  was  in  the  devil's  clutches  I  coaxed  the 
child  out  into  the  woods.  I  cut  its  throat  and  hid 
the  body  in  the  synagogue." 

He  ended  and  lay  fighting  for  his  last  breath. 
"Oh,  Batiushka !"  he  gasped,  clutching  the  priest's 
hand.  But  not  another  word.  Incoherent  bab- 
bling was  all  I  could  hear.  The  priest  took  a  cross 
from  his  pocket  and  pressed  it  to  the  dying  lips. 

I  arose  unsteadily  to  my  feet.     The  members  of 


84  The  Fugitive 

the  family  were  rising  one  by  one;  the  rabbits, 
crowded  together  in  a  corner,  were  munching 
withered  cabbage  leaves;  the  pigs  under  the  "family 
bed"  squealed  and  grunted;  the  chickens  cackled 
in  the  coop  under  the  oven — it  was  daybreak 
already. 

Without  so  much  as  a  "  thank  you"  I  slipped  out 
of  the  hut,  leaving  the  peasant  in  his  last  gasps 
and  the  priest  whispering  words  of  absolution  in 
his  ears. 

Vaguely  I  marvelled  that  chance  had  brought  me 
to  this  hut  on  just  this  night;  vaguely  I  thought  of 
life  being  a  chain  linked  of  chances;  vaguely  I  re- 
called the  incidents  of  my  life  and  the  chances  that 
linked  them  together.  Little  by  little  new  thoughts, 
new  sentiments  took  possession  of  me — strange 
thoughts,  wild  sentiments.  This  Bialnick — this 
supposed  benefactor.  A  fierce,  savage  desire  for 
vengeance — vengeance  at  any  cost — burned  within 
me.  And  suddenly,  like  a  streak  of  lightning 
ripping  the  clouds,  the  remembrance  of  a  face 
recurred  to  my  mind.  Ah,  Katia  !  Katia  !  Honey 
from  a  stinging  bee. 


CHAPTER  XII 
BACK   TO   MY  O  WN 

MY  first  impulse  as  I  left  the  hut  was  to  go  back 
to  the  Sudya  and  tell  him  all  I  had  discovered — 
tell  him  that  I  knew  he  was  the  cause  of  my  father's 
death,  and  that  the  innocent  blood  of  my  poor 
mother  was  on  him;  tell  him  that  I  was  not  yet 
strong  enough  to  kill  him,  but  some  day,  when  I 
was  stronger,  I  should  find  vengeance  for  my  parents' 
blood.  But  after  I  had  gone  a  few  paces  back  over 
the  road  that  led  to  Zamok  I  realised  how  useless 
such  a  step  would  be.  With  these  thoughts  still 
torturing  my  brain  I  returned,  and  as  if  fearing  my 
own  will  I  began  to  run. 

The  weather  had  slightly  changed  during  the 
night;  the  hail  and  snow  had  ceased  falling,  and 
the  warm  caress  of  the  rising  sun  turned  the  fur- 
rowed fields  into  splashy  mud  and  slush.  At  every 
step  I  could  scarcely  free  my  foot  from  the  limy 
mud,  and  my  boots  squashed  like  croaking  frogs. 

I  struggled  along  the  mail  road,  melancholy,  my 
head  bent  over  my  chest.  Gradually  my  fierce 
sentiment  against  Bialnick  gave  place  to  a  different 
feeling,  and  my  heart  began  to  throb  violently. 
At  first  this  feeling  was  vague,  almost  incompre- 

'85 


86  The  Fugitive 

hensible,  but  I  was  soon  conscious  of  a  sweet  and 
alluring  air  chiming  in  my  ears;  a  soothing  sensa- 
tion passed  through  my  frame;  a  charming  picture 
presented  itself  before  me — Katia !  I  felt  the 
thrill  of  hope  as  this  vision  flitted  through  my  mind. 
Again  my  heart  was  burning  with  a  craving  desire ; 
again  my  blood  was  flowing  warmer  and  swifter; 
again  an  almost  irresistible  impulse  was  forcing 
me  back  to  Zamok — go  back  and  read  of  the  same 
book  with  her;  feel  the  touch  of  her  locks  against 
my  burning  cheeks;  hear  her  say  again,  "Why, 
you  foolish  Israel,  then  I'll  marry  you" — and  forget 
— forget  my  father  and  her  father  and  everything 
that  embittered  my  heart ! 

But  I  realised  that  to  return  was  impossible;  so 
I  tramped  painfully,  doggedly  on,  my  legs  growing 
heavier  and  heavier.  Presently  the  faint  jingling 
of  a  bell  behind  me  broke  in  upon  my  hopeless 
thoughts.  Turning  about,  I  beheld  a  long,  mud- 
covered  Kibitka,  the  top  of  which  was  a  quaint 
combination  of  patches,  drawn  by  two  skinny,  be- 
spattered horses.  I  stopped  and  awaited  its  ap- 
proach. But  just  before  it  reached  me  its  front 
wheels  sank  half-way  to  the  hubs  in  a  water-hidden 
rut. 

"Phmtz — phmtz !"  the  driver  encouraged  his 
animals.  They  pulled  with  all  their  strength,  but 
the  wheels,  evidently  not  well  greased,  creaked 
without  rolling.  "Would  that  the  black  cholera 
had  you,  you  limping  old  mares !"  This  the  driver 


Back  to  My  Own  87 

followed  by  a  long  string  of  oaths,  jerking  the  reins 
and  whipping  the  poor  beasts  mercilessly.  Several 
passengers  jumped  out  of  their  own  accord,  and 
this  so  lightened  the  vehicle  that  the  horses,  by 
a  sudden  pull,  drew  the  Kibitka,  creaking,  out 
of  the  rut. 

"Nu,  Pritzim  [noblemen],"  the  driver  accosted 
his  passengers  half-sarcastically,  "get  a  move  on 
you.  You  think  my  lions  [tapping  his  horses  with 
his  whip]  can  carry  you  a  thousand  miles  without  a 
stop,  hey?" 

"We  dragged  slowly  enough  all  night,"  com- 
plained one  of  the  passengers  from  within  the 
Kibitka,  "and  if  we  keep  on  moving  at  this  rate 
we'll  scarcely  get  to  Javolin  at  sunset." 

"If  you  please,"  the  driver  rejoined  with  unsup- 
pressed  wrath,  "I'll  not  drive  my  poor  horses  to 
death  on  your  account — no,  not  for  seventy-five 
copecks.  At  this  time  of  the  year  I  should  have 
charged  at  least  a  ruble  and  a  half,  but — all  plagues 
on  the  other  coachmen ! — competition  is  fierce. 
Well  [a  little  facetiously],  you  will  become  a  rabbi 
a  day  later." 

Javolin !  Who  had  not  heard  of  the  Yeshiva 
(seminary)  of  Javolin?  What  God-fearing  mother 
did  not  cherish  the  hope  of  having  at  least  one  son 
at  this  Talmudic  lyceum?  What  wealthy  father 
did  not  speculate  of  procuring  a  son-in-law  from 
this  center  of  learning  ?  What  Shadchan  (marriage 
broker)  did  not  cast  his  bait  in  this  pond  of  gold- 


88  The  Fugitive 

fish?     The    Yeshiva    of     Javolin— the    source    of 
prodigies ! 

Javolin  now  appeared  to  me  like  a  twinkling  star 
in  a  dense  night.  My  way  was  pointed  me. 

I  went  up  to  the  driver  and  asked  him  to  take 
me  to  Javolin. 

"For  how  much?"  he  asked  pointedly,  beating 
the  butt  of  his  whip  against  his  long,  muddy  boots. 

I  stood  abashed,  with  my  fingers  fumbling  in  my 
pockets  as  if  I  were  scraping  my  money  together. 

"We  will  not  allow  you  to  take  another  passen- 
ger," remonstrated  the  one  who  had  before  shown 
great  anxiety  to  get  to  Javolin.  "We  hired  you 
for  three  of  us,  and  already  you  have  crowded  in 
seven  more." 

"How  do  you  figure  seven?"  returned  the  driver. 
"I  agreed  with  you  not  to  have  more  than  three 
men.  Do  you  call  this  lady  with  children  a  man?" 
He  pointed  his  finger  at  a  small  family  crouched 
together  in  the  Kibitka.  "Do  you  call  that  poor 
gentleman,"  he  said  in  a  lowered  voice,  pointing  at 
another  passenger,  "a  man?  Well,  I  am  an  igno- 
ramus, but  you  ought  to  know  that  the  Talmud 
says:  'A  poor  man  is  regarded  as  a  corpse.'  Did 
I  ever  promise  you  not  to  carry  corpses?  And 
now  as  to  that  blind  gentleman,  don't  you  know 
that  the  Talmud  says  that  a  blind  man  is  exempt 
from  all  religious  obligations?  Now  as  to  this 
youngster,  he  is  no  man,  as  you  can  see  for  your- 
self." 


Back  to  My  Own  89 

These  jesting  excuses  pacified  the  grumbling 
passenger.  Turning  to  me,  the  driver  said:  "Well, 
how  much  will  you  give?" 

"  I — I — lost  my  money,"  I  stammered,  feeling  the 
blood  spring  to  my  cheeks  from  shame  of  the  lie. 

"Aha  !  little  fellow,"  the  driver  said  humorously, 
"you  lost  your  money,  hey?  If  you're  as  smart  as 
that  you  must  have  reached  manhood,  and  I  agreed 
with  these  gentlemen  to  take  no  more  than  three." 
He  laughed  heartily  as  he  turned  to  his  passengers 
and  winked. 

I  dropped  my  eyes  and  wished  I  might  sink 
through  the  ground ;  his  jests  hurt  me,  and  the  pas- 
sengers stared  at  me  curiously. 

After  a  short  rest  the  driver  asked  the  passengers 
to  take  their  seats,  and  he  jumped  upon  the  box. 
My  heart  sank  within  me  as  I  watched  them  crawl 
into  the  long,  narrow,  closed  wagon.  I  would  give 
anything  to  be  taken  to  Javolin,  but  I  did  not  have 
a  copeck.  But  as  I  started  away  on  foot  the  driver 
called  after  me:  "Where  do  you  live,  young  fellow?" 

Tears  filled  my  eyes.     Where  did  I  live? 

He  glanced  at  me  pityingly.  "Jump  up,"  he 
said,  and  moved  aside  to  make  room  for  me. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
THE  YESHIVA 

WHEN  we  reached  Javolin  the  other  passengers 
had  supper  at  the  inn  before  which  the  Kibitka  had 
dropped  us,  but  I,  having  no  money,  set  out  im- 
mediately for  the  Yeshiva.  Though  night  had 
fallen,  I  needed  no  guide  to  it;  brightly  lighted,  it 
towered  above  the  few  hundred  low-built,  thatch- 
roofed  huts  that  composed  Javolin .  From  a  distance 
it  appeared  like  a  lighthouse,  and  its  reflection  cast 
a  vast  shadow  over  the  sea  of  roofs.  I  followed 
this  light.  The  town  was  quiet;  not  a  moving 
team,  not  a  pedestrian,  not  another  light  to  cheer 
the  deserted  alleys,  not  even  the  sound  of  my  foot- 
steps as  I  was  treading  the  slush — nothing  but 
dense  darkness,  gloom,  isolation.  Only  once  this 
deathlike  stillness  was  broken  as  the  door  of  a 
tavern  opened. 

But  hark !  While  still  at  some  distance  from  the 
Yeshiva  a  sound  like  that  of  water  seething  over 
a  great  dam  reached  my  ears.  I  held  my  breath; 
I  put  my  feet  down  softly;  I  strained  my  ears. 
As  I  approached  nearer  the  seminary  the  sound 
grew  louder  and  separated  into  distinct  voices — 
the  sum  of  hundreds  of  voices,  each  pitched  in  its 

90 


The  Yeshiva  91 

own  key.  For  a  minute  I  stood  in  front  of  the 
great  white  building  and  gazed  through  the  long 
arched  windows  at  the  swaying  heads  and  shadows 
of  heads,  of  shoulders,  of  opening  and  closing 
mouths,  and  at  the  waving  arms,  slightly  oscillating 
lamps  suspended  on  long  wires;  and  I  watched  the 
young  students,  with  cigarettes  between  their  lips 
and  long  books  under  their  arms,  hurry  down  the 
score  of  cut-stone  steps  and  disappear  in  the  many 
small  side  streets  that  branch  off  the  Yeshiva 
campus. 

I  climbed  the  stairs  with  awe  in  my  heart,  opened 
the  door,  and  tremblingly  entered.  A  bewildering 
spectacle  was  before  my  eyes.  No  less  than  five 
hundred  students  were  in  the  enormous  class-room, 
varying  from  striplings  of  sixteen  to  grown  men  with 
long,  untrimmed  beards,  sitting  and  standing  on  both 
sides  of  the  long  "reclining  desks."  They  swayed 
their  bodies  backward  and  forward,  from  side  to 
side,  like  so  many  pendulums  in  a  clockmaker's 
shop,  while  they  conned  their  lessons  in  as  loud  a 
voice  as  each  pleased,  and  in  as  many  different 
intonations  as  the  voices  that  uttered  them.  Some 
sang  Talmudic  rules  in  elastic  barytones  and  modu- 
lated alto  voices ;  some  recited  the  intricate,  never- 
ending,  hair-splitting  arguments  in  plaintive,  im- 
ploring notes,  and  some  piped  Halachas  (statutes) 
in  sweet  soprano;  some  laughed  and  some  groaned; 
some  shouted  and  some  hummed  in  hushed  voices; 
some  talked  and  some  whispered;  some  winked 


92  The  Fugitive 

and  some  stared  idiotically — an  uproar  of  Talmudic 
learning  !  The  sight  was  purely  oriental,  unadorned 
by  Grecian  art  or  modern  European  polish. 

Among  the  clamorous  rows  of  students  there 
were  representatives  of  all  climes  and  of  all  genera- 
tions of  the  race:  old-looking,  swarthy  Arabian 
faces;  delicately  cut  Grecian  faces;  faces  with  com- 
manding Roman  noses ;  sandy-complexioned  Russian 
faces;  and  faces  suggestive  of  Spain  and  Holland 
and  Germany  and  Poland  and  of  nations  unknown. 
In  their  thoughtful  countenances,  their  gestures, 
their  nervous  actions — in  everything  about  these 
children  of  a  wandering  people — a  physiognomist 
might  have  read,  as  from  an  open  book,  the  same 
vivid  imaginations  and  poetic  minds  that  char- 
acterised, in  ages  long  past,  their  heroes,  poets, 
and  brilliant  sages. 

In  dress  and  physique  the  students  varied  as 
much  as  in  their  faces.  There  were  men  in  old- 
fashioned  long  caftans,  with  corkscrew  curls  dan- 
gling on  both  sides  of  their  cheeks,  and  others  in 
clothes  of  the  very  latest  style;  not  a  few  appeared 
wealthy,  their  faces  wearing  the  expression  of  the 
spoiled  child.  Hale,  robust  lads  with  broad  shoulders 
and  piercing  eyes  were  promiscuously  discernible 
among  flat-breasted,  submissive-looking  boys. 

A  short,  heavy-set  man  with  a  small,  iron-gray 
beard  and  dull  face  walked  between  the  rows  of 
desks,  scrutinising  everybody  with  his  stupid  eyes 
and  noting  in  his  little  book  every  vacant  seat.  He 


The  Yeshiva.  93 

was  the  Mashgiach  (inspector).  He  frequently 
stopped  and  spoke  to  those  seated  near,  as  if  in- 
quiring about  the  absent  student.  A  tall  man  with 
sottish  eyes,  purple  nose,  and  curly  peiis  (ear-locks) 
followed  behind  the  Mashgiach,  step  by  step. 

A  few  students  noticed  me  standing  near  the  door, 
but  no  attention  was  paid  me  until  the  man  with 
the  sottish  eyes — who,  I  was  told  later,  was  the 
Mashgiach's  assistant — came  to  me  and  asked  whom 
I  wished  to  see.  I  told  him  I  came  to  enroll  in  the 
Yeshiva.  He  glanced  me  over  with  a  satirical 
smile  on  his  face,  and  scratching  his  left  peii  said: 
"Did  you  bring  your  wet-nurse  and  your  cradle 
along  with  you?" 

This  sarcasm  cut  me  to  the  quick.  He  saw  the 
effect  of  his  words  and  hastened  to  make  amends. 
"I  mean  no  harm,"  he  said,  scratching  the  same 
peii.  "Go  to  the  Rosh-H' Shiva  [principal],  and  he 
will  do  the  right  thing  by  you." 

The  Rosh-H 'Shiva  lived  in  a  luxurious  home 
next  to  the  seminary.  I  ascended  the  high  porch 
and  was  admitted  to  a  brightly  lighted  corridor. 

A  tall,  handsome  young  lady,  richly  dressed,  with 
the  dignity  of  a  queen  and  the  arrogance  of  a 
servant-girl  who  marries  her  master,  came  up  to 
me  and  asked: 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  the  Rabbi?" 

"Yes,"  I  murmured. 

"You  may  see  him  in  his  study — there,"  she 
said  a  trifle  haughtily,  and  pointed  to  a  large 


94  The  Fugitive 

room  across  the  hallway,  the  doors  of  which  were 

open. 

I  stopped  at  the  threshold.  A  solidly  built  man 
of  about  seventy  years,  with  a  calm,  broad,  square 
forehead,  was  stooped  over  a  long  table,  upon  which 
lay  a  number  of  open  folios.  His  unspectacled 
eyes  skipped  from  book  to  book  as  he  turned  a  few 
leaves  of  one  or  scribbled  a  few  words  on  the 
margin  of  another.  Every  line  in  his  face  showed 
complete  absorption.  I  stood  for  some  minutes 
waiting  for  him  to  take  notice  of  me,  but  he  con- 
tinued bent  over  the  books,  unconscious  of  my 
presence.  So  I  thought  it  wise  to  cough. 

He  raised  his  eyes.  "What  do  you  wish,  my 
child?"  he  asked  in  a  benign,  husky  voice. 

I  told  him  that  I  desired  to  enter  his  institu- 
tion. 

He  stretched  out  his  little  fat  hand.  "Sholam 
Aleichem  [peace  be  to  you],"  he  said.  "And 
where  do  you  come  from?" 

I  knew  the  consequence  if  I  told  the  truth.  I 
hesitated  a  moment  and  then  gave  the  name  of  a 
small  town  I  had  never  seen. 

He  was  proceeding  to  question  me  further, 
showing  a  little  rigour  in  his  tone,  when  he  was 
interrupted  by  the  young  lady  I  had  met  in  the 
corridor.  "Miriam,  how  is  Teploffka?"  he  asked 
of  her.  "Do  we  get  anything  from  there?" 

"The  collectors  scarcely  make  their  expenses," 
she  replied  authoritatively.  "And  besides,  we  have 


The  Yeshiva  95 

no  trustees  there,  and  I  do  not  believe  that  we  can 
allow  a  Teploffka  student  any  stipend." 

I  did  not  know  what  reply  to  make.  I  stood 
dumb  between  the  aged  Rabbi  and  the  beautiful 
young  lady  (who  I  afterward  learned  was  his  third 
wife),  like  a  Daniel  between  two  lions. 

The  Rosh-H'Shiva  turned  again  to  me :  ' '  Perhaps 
your  father  will  be  able  to  send  you  enough  money, 
so  that  you  won't  need  any  stipend,"  he  suggested. 

"I  have  no  father,"  I  murmured. 

"A  Yosem  [orphan]?"  he  inquired  in  a  sympa- 
thising tone. 

"Neither  father  nor  mother,"   I  replied. 

The  Rabbi  looked  at  me  thoughtfully,  curling  a 
few  hairs  of  his  white  beard  about  his  forefinger. 
His  young  wife  regarded  me  with  anything  but 
pleasure. 

"Well,"  he  said  after  a  few  moments,  "present 
yourself  before  the  Mashgiach  to-morrow,  and  if  he 
reports  your  examination  satisfactory  we'll  see  what 
we  can  do  for  you." 

"  I  don't  believe  we  can  give  anything  to  a  resi- 
dent of  Teploffka,"  struck  in  his  wife,  noticeably 
irritated,  as  if  her  own  money  were  in  question.  "  I 
looked  at  the  books  the  other  day,  and  I  found 
that  Teploffka  never  contributed  much  to  the 
Yeshiva." 

"A — a — my  child"  (he  addressed  his  wife  also 
as  "My  child"),  the  Rabbi  said  softly,  "we'll  see 
to-morrow — a — a — we'll  see  to-morrow." 


96  The  Fugitive 

A  few  minutes  later  I  was  tramping  back  through 
the  muddy  street  to  the  tavern  where  the  Kibitka 
had  dropped  me. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
MY   NEW    H  OME 

THE  following  morning  I  presented  myself  before 
the  Mashgiach,  who  was  also  the  examiner,  and 
upon  his  recommendation  I  was  accepted  and 
granted  a  stipend  of  seventy-five  copecks  a  week, 
though  Rabbi  Brill's  beautiful  young  wife  insisted 
that  fifty  copecks  were  plenty. 

Before  I  was  quite  settled  I  sauntered  diffidently 
about  the  Yeshiva.  A  number  of  students,  who 
would  sneak  out  as  soon  as  the  Rosh-H' Shiva 
appeared,  were  always  found  lounging  about  the 
lobby,  with  books  under  their  arms  and  lighted 
cigarettes  between  their  lips.  For  some  young 
men  came  here  for  the  sole  purpose  of  being  enrolled 
as  students  in  order  that  they  might  obtain  a  repu- 
tation for  scholarship  and  so  have  their  dowries 
increased.  They  would  chat,  crack  jokes,  play 
pranks  upon  one  another,  criticise  the  Yeshiva 
officials,  make  insinuating  remarks  about  Rabbi 
Brill's  young  wife,  and  were  altogether  bent  on 
mischief. 

Seeing  me,  they  began  to  make  me  the  butt  of 
their  jests.  A  tall,  lean  fellow,  with  glasses  on  his 
nose,  whispered  to  another,  loud  enough  to  be  heard 

97 


Q8  The  Fugitive 

by  them  all:  "Did  this  baby  [meaning  me]  bring 
his  mamma  along?"  A  roar  of  laughter  followed 
this  facetious  remark.  I  blushed,  dropped  my 
eyes,  and  bored  my  pocket  painfully.  Immediately 
a  coiled  wet  towel,  thrown  by  one  of  the  group, 
struck  me  in  the  back  of  the  neck  and  sent  my  cap 
flying.  I  should  have  been  furious  at  this  insult, 
but  I  had  only  a  desire  to  sneak  away. 

"Shrolke!"  exclaimed  a  voice  as  I  was  picking 
up  my  cap. 

I  wheeled  about  joyfully.  "Ephraim!"  I  cried; 
and  we  were  straightway  clasped  in  each  other's 
arms. 

"A  mountain  never  meets  a  mountain,  but  one 
person  comes  across  another,"  he  quoted  in 
Aramaic-Chaldaic . 

He  freed  himself  and  turned  to  a  group  of  loi- 
terers. "See  here,  you  fellows,  you'll  find  it  a 
good  plan  to  leave  him  alone."  Without  waiting 
for  their  reply,  he  led  me  off  to  his  room,  and  there 
we  told  one  another  of  our  experiences.  I  confided 
everything  to  him  except  my  feeling  for  Katia, 
a  subject  too  sacred  for  me  to  lay  bare  even  to  my 
dearest  friend.  In  spite  of  my  deadly  hatred 
against  her  father,  she  was  sweeter  than  ever  to  me. 

The  same  day  I  obtained  lodgings  at  a  poor 
tailor's  for  the  modest  price  of  twenty-five  copecks 
a  week,  and  I  hoped  to  stretch  the  balance  of  my 
stipend  so  that  it  would  cover  my  board  and  other 
necessaries. 


My  New  Home  99 

I  do  not  believe  my  landlord  ever  had  a  given 
name,  and  if  he  had  I  am  certain  he  was  unac- 
quainted with  it.  In  the  community  he  was  known 
as  Menke  Shmunke's — that  is,  Menke  the  son  of 
Shmunke.  And  his  wife,  who  through  some  blunder 
of  Providence  was  made  a  woman,  was  commonly 
called  Groone  Menke  Shmunke's.  Notwithstand- 
ing their  humble  station  and  names,  Groone  always 
talked  disdainfully  of  the  "  ordinary  working  classes," 
and  so  influenced  her  husband  as  to  make  him 
believe  that  he  was  a  respectable  Baal-H'bos 
(bourgeois). 

Menke  was  a  small  man  who  had  probably  ceased 
to  grow  at  the  age  of  twelve,  as  is  sometimes  the 
case  with  hard-working  children.  His  bones  were 
large  and  broad,  and  the  more  prominent  as  the 
Creator  had  neglected  to  cover  them  with  enough 
flesh;  his  cheek-bones  were  high  and  the  cheeks 
very  hollow  and  overgrown  with  a  tousled  black 
beard,  over  which  hung  his  long,  sticky  peiis,  which 
frequently  annoyed  him  when  he  bent  forward  to 
thread  a  needle.  A  skull-cap  invariably  crowned 
his  head.  The  material  of  this  cap  was  a  puzzle 
to  me.  At  first  I  thought  it  was  velvet  because  of 
its  gloss  and  blackness,  but  after  closer  observation 
I  found  the  gloss  to  have  been  chiefly  due  to  the 
pressure  of  his  hat,  under  which  he  always  wore 
his  cap,  in  order  (as  he  once  explained  to  me) 
that  he  might  not  remain  bareheaded  when  de- 
livering clothes  in  places  where  the  removal  of 


too  The  Fugitive 

his  cap  would  be  necessary,  so  I  changed  my 
opinion. 

Groone  was  Menke's  second  love,  and  by  no 
means  had  he  been  disappointed  in  his  second 
venture,  for  in  a  little  over  seven  months  he  had 
been  blessed  with  a  Kaddish  (a  male  child  to  say 
prayers  after  a  dead  parent).  At  first  the  con- 
tinued existence  of  this  Kaddish  was  gravely  doubted ; 
nevertheless,  he  grew  tall  and  stooped,  and  had  as 
fine  a  pair  of  crooked  shoulders  as  ever  overtowered 
a  folio  of  Talmud.  His  name  was  Samuel,  which 
was  fondly  diminished  by  his  mother  to  Shmulke, 
which  his  father,  who  talked  through  his  nose — 
because  that  organ  was  broken  a  little  below  the 
Semitic  bridge — pronounced  Shmunke;  and  as  the 
Kaddish  likewise  talked  through  his  nose,  he  also 
had  difficulty  in  pronouncing  his  own  name,  and 
therefore  spoke  of  himself  as  Shmunke  Menke 
Shmunke' s. 

Although  Menke  was  very  anxious  to  have  a 
daughter  (for  as  Groone  used  to  complain,  she  had 
enough  bedclothes  for  half  a  dozen  daughters),  the 
"Lord  had  shut  up  her  womb,"  and  Shmunke 
remained  a  ben-yochid  (an  only  son).  Naturally, 
Shmunke  "was  given  unto  the  Lord  all  the  days 
of  his  life,"  and  he  was  destined  by  his  parents  to 
become  a  rabbi.  And  in  the  manner  of  the  prophet 
there  never  came  scissors  upon  his  head,  so  that  at 
the  time  of  my  forming  his  acquaintance  he  could 
knot  his  peiis  under  his  chin.  He  was  now  about 


My  New  Home  101 

eighteen  years  old,  and  his  mind  was  constantly 
rambling  in  the  cul-de-sac  of  the  Babylonian  com- 
pilation. 

There  were  only  two  rooms  in  the  house.  One 
served  for  the  kitchen,  for  the  bedroom  of  the 
husband  and  wife,  and  also  for  the  tailor  shop,  in 
which  Menke  and  Groone  sat  from  sunrise  till  late 
at  night  over  their  work.  The  other  was  Shmunke's 
room;  it  was  always  clean  and  neat.  I  was  sup- 
posed to  share  this  room  with  him,  but  it  so  happened 
that  it  was  practically  mine  alone,  for  Shmunke 
stayed  in  the  Yeshiva,  to  the  extreme  joy  of  his 
poor  parents,  every  day  and  the  greater  part  of 
every  night,  and  shook  himself  and  shouted  as 
loud  as  his  lungs  would  allow  over  a  large  and 
heavy  volume  of  Talmud. 

The  second  day  after  I  had  come  to  reside  with 
these  people  Groone  came  into  my  room,  smooth- 
ing her  heavy  wig,  and  a  little  awkwardly  opened 
conversation.  "Teploffker  [most  of  the  students 
were  called  by  the  name  of  the  town  they  came 
from],  I  hate  to  intrude  upon  people;  you  know, 
it  is  not  my  nature.  As  I  always  say  to  my  husband 
(may  he  live  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  !),  some 
people  like  to  impose,  but  our  natures  are  quite  the 
other  way.  We  know  our  station.  Not  like  Beile 
Yente  Mollie  Zippe's,  who  thinks  because  her  second 
cousin  was  a  rabbi  she  is  an  aristocrat.  I  know 
full  well,  if  not  for  my  Shmunke,  who,  Rabbi  Brill 
said  with  his  own  holy  mouth,  is  going  to  be  a 


102  The  Fugitive 

shining  light  in  Israel,  I  would  be  no  more  than  the 
ordinary  working  people.  I  admit  that  I  would  be 
no  more  that  Yankle,  Chaim,  or  Todres.  But  when 
God  blessed  us  with  such  a  son — well,  you  can't 
help  feeling  a  little  proud,  as  the  Talmud  says — 
he !  he !  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  misquote  it ;  I  am 
only  a  woman  [and  her  countenance  assumed  a 
smiling  grimace],  but  I  think  it  says  that  good 
children  pull  their  parents  out  of  the  blazes  of  hell, 
and  of  course  a  person  can't  help,  you  know,  feel- 
ing a  trifle  elated  over  such  a  blessing.  As  I  say, 
it  is  not  in  our  nature,  neither  in  mii^  nor  in  my 
husband's  (may  he  live  a  hundred  and  twenty 
years !) — but  really,  what  do  you  think  of  our 
Shmunke?  Are  there  any  brighter  boys  in  the 
Yeshiva?  Really,  I  am  only  a  poor,  ignorant 
woman;  but  is  there  anybody  who  knows  more 

than  Shmunke  ?  And '  She  suddenly  checked 

herself  and  with  a  beaming  face  she  said:  "I  hear 
him  coming,  and  I  must  be  quick.  My  !  my !  How 
hungry  my  poor  darling  must  be !" 

And  in  a  jiffy  the  table  in  "  our  "  room  was  covered 
with  a  white  cloth  and  a  savoury  dinner  was  set 
upon  it.  Menke  and  his  wife  never  breakfasted 
on  anything  better  than  black  bread  and  chicory, 
and  their  second  meal  (for  they  ate  twice  a  day 
only)  consisted  of  the  same  rye  bread,  a  piece  of 
herring,  and  milk-washed  barley. 

When  Shmunke  was  in  the  house  his  parents 
never  talked  above  a  whisper;  then  their  thoughts 


My  New  Home  103 

seemed  to  be  centered  upon  him  alone.  Late  at 
night,  while  Shmunke  pondered  in  the  Yeshiva  over 
some  commentary  upon  the  Talmud,  and  while 
I  sleeplessly  thought  of  Katia,  Menke  and  Groone 
would  hold  council  regarding  their  ben-yochid's 
future.  The  subject  was  always  the  same,  and 
their  talk  always  was  much  as  follows: 

"Menke" — thus  the  dialogue  would  commence — 
"Menke,  are  you  already  asleep?  [Menke  would 
stir  in  his  bed,  evidently  desirous  of  slumber.] 
Menke,  you  blockhead,  you  peasant's  brain,  you 
straw-stuffed  head,  why  not  Mendel  the  timber 
merchant's  daughter  ?  Why  not  ?  [No  reply  from 
Menke.]  Now  tell  me  why  not,  you  stiff-necked 
father.  Mendel,  as  the  whole  world  knows,  is  a 
lamden  [a  man  learned  in  the  Talmud],  who 
owns  a  water-mill,  manages  two  large  estates  for 
Count  Metzkewicz,  is  tax-collector,  and  has  no  sons. 
[The  primogeniture  law  is  still  in  existence  among 
the  Jews  in  Russia.]  Mendel  is  fully  seventy  years 
old,  and  how  long  does  a  man  live?  Think  what 
Shmunke  would  fall  heir  to.  Imagine  what  Hirshle 
the  cobbler,  Baril  the  carpenter,  Zemach  the  water- 
carrier  would  think  of  us  then — and  who  would 
not?  They  would  simply  hang  themselves  with 
jealousy.  Shmunke  would  get  a  seat  in  the  syna- 
gogue next  to  the  Oren-Kodesh.  What !  you  are 
really  snoring  ?  A  plague  on  you  !  You  may  burst 
on  the  spot.  And  I  say  Mendel's  daughter  and  no 
one  else." 


104  The  Fugitive 

A  few  seconds  of  silence  would  ensue.  Not  a 
sound  from  the  other  bed. 

"  Well,  Menke,  did  you  get  deaf  and  dumb  all  of 
a  sudden?" 

"Oh,  I  told  you  a  hundred  times,"  Menke  would 
finally  answer  through  his  nose  in  a  sleepy  tone, 
"that  I'd  rather  have  my  son  marry  a  rabbi's 
daughter  than  the  daughter  of  a  timber  merchant. 
What  is  wealth?  As  it  stands  in  the  Tehilim 
[Psalms] :  '  For  when  he  dieth  he  shall  carry  noth- 
ing away:  his  glory  shall  not  descend  after  him." 
From  the  clearness  of  his  voice  I  judged  that  he 
rose  on  his  elbow,  as  he  continued  suavely:  "  Look 
here:  Torah  is  the  best  merchandise.  The  Rabbi 
is  also  an  aged  man,  the  girl  is  his  only  child,  and 
when  he  dies  who  will  succeed  him  if  he  should 
have  a  son  like  our  Shmunke  ?  Narrele  [little  fool]," 
he  would  proceed  persuasively,  "why  should  money 
dazzle  your  eyes?  Now  think  what  our  enemies 
would  say  seeing  our  Shmunke  with  the  Rabbi's 
daughter  under  the  Chupa  [nuptial  canopy]." 

Little  by  little  such  conversations  would  become 
more  and  more  broken  until  nothing  would  be 
heard  from  the  next  room  but  the  sonorous  snoring 
of  the  pair,  like  trumpets  out  of  tune. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE  "SHA". 

HOWEVER  great  the  contrast  between  the  life 
I  had  led  in  the  Sudya's  house  and  that  I  spent 
with  these  humble  people,  the  next  few  months 
passed  rapidly  and  almost  happily.  It  is  true  the 
sacred  fire  which  Katia  had  kindled  in  my  young 
heart  did  not  smoulder,  and  the  ambition  which 
she  had  aroused  in  me  grew  daily  and  took  full 
possession  of  me;  but  I  was  conscious  of  the  heavy 
shackles  that  checked  my  movements,  and  was 
discreet  enough  to  keep  still  when  I  realised  that 
the  raising  of  my  voice  would  bring  me  no  relief. 

I  learned  the  ways  and  manners  of  my  school- 
mates and  became  one  of  them.  I  learned  to 
sway  myself  backward  and  forward  and  shout 
the  Talmudic  lore  at  the  top  of  my  voice.  By  and 
by  I  even  learned  to  condemn  Rabbi  Brill  for  being 
henpecked,  and  his  young  wife  for  curtailing  the 
students'  stipends. 

Ephraim  was  as  commanding  in  this  great  insti- 
tution as  he  had  been  in  that  dingy  little  Talmud- 
Torah.  Here,  too,  he  was  the  leading  spirit,  and 
was  hated  by  Rabbi  Brill  and  the  other  seminary 
officials  as  he  had  been  feared  by  Shlomka  Gazlen. 

105 


io6  The  Fugitive 

Although  the  school  authorities  knew  that  he  was 
violating  every  rule  of  the  faculty,  he  was  never 
molested  on  that  score.  But  he  frequently  got 
himself  into  trouble  by  taking  the  part  of  others. 

A  few  days  before  the  close  of  the  winter  semester 
the  stipends  of  forty-five  students  were  reduced 
twenty  per  cent.,  and  a  number  of  students  who 
had  been  caught  reading  "prohibited  books"  were 
given  notice  to  resign.  Ephraim  promptly  took 
up  the  cause  of  his  unfortunate  fellow-students.  He 
openly  condemned  the  actions  of  the  Rosh-H' Shiva 
and  agitated  fearlessly  among  his  classmates. 
The  Yeshiva  was  in  a  state  of  uprising.  Students 
stood  in  groups  about  the  campus,  discussing 
the  state  of  affairs  in  excited  tones,  hushing  at  the 
appearance  of  Rabbi  Brill  and  resuming  as  soon  as 
he  was  out  of  sight. 

"To-night  we'll  have  the  biggest  'Sha'  Rabbi 
Brill  ever  saw,"  Ephraim  confided  to  me  one  morn- 
ing. "Unless  the  stipends  are  raised  and  the 
raids  of  students'  lodgings  stopped  at  once,  Rabbi 
Brill  will  ctay  there  all  night,  and  every  window- 
pane  of  his  house  will  be  smashed." 

"But  why  blame  him?"  I  asked.  "If  the 
contributions  to  the  stipend  fund  have  diminished, 
what  can  he  do?" 

"What  can  he  do?"  he  burst  out  vehemently. 

You're   the    same    chicken-hearted    fellow  as   of 

old;  you  always  believe  everybody.      He  lives  in 

luxury,  his  wife  rolls  in  gold  and  lavishes  money  on 


The  "Sha"  107 

dresses,  and  forty-five  poor  students  are  to  suffer  ! 
Why  should  he  suppress  the  reading  of  en- 
lightening books  and  periodicals?  Aren't  we  our 
own  masters?" 

I  urged  him  to  abandon  the  plan,  but  he  said 
sharply  that  I  was  just  like  a  girl — afraid  of 
everybody;  and  then  he  abruptly  left  me. 

In  the  evening,  after  prayers,  every  student 
resumed  his  studies  as  usual.  Rabbi  Brill,  as  was 
his  wont,  walked  between  the  rows  of  desks,  and 
up  and  down  the  long  passage  between  the  tall, 
white  "four  columns"  which  supported  the  oriental 
structure.  He  moved  slowly,  his  thumbs  stuck 
restfully  in  his  abnet,  his  Streimel  (round  fur  hat) 
tilted  back,  and  cast  suspicious  glances  here  and 
there.  Presently  Rabbi  Brill  reached  his  arm- 
chair, which  looked  like  a  kingly  throne,  and  opened 
a  pocket-edition  volume  of  the  Mishna*  (a  syllabic 
digest  of  the  Talmud). 

Then  suddenly,  "Sh!  Sh!  Sh !  Sh!"  hissed 
five  hundred  breaths.  And  just  as  suddenly  all 
were  hushed. 

Rabbi  Brill  leaped  from  his  chair,  and  his  ener- 
getic, powerful  face  clouded  with  rage.  He  turned 
his  piercing  eyes  right  and  left,  but  none  of  the 
students  looked  at  him. 

"  Sh  !  Sh  !  Sh !  Sh  ! "  again  came  from  all  sides 
like  so  many  hissing  snakes. 

The  Mashgiach  slapped  his  desk  wrathfully. 
"Silence!"  he  cried. 


io8  The  Fugitive 

"Silence!"  shouted  his  assistant. 

But  their  commands  did  nothing  to  quiet  the 
sibilant  uproar. 

Rabbi  Brill's  anger  seemed  to  be  aroused  to  its 
highest  pitch,  but  he  still  restrained  his  feelings, 
and  continued  walking  down  the  passage  between 
the  "four  columns,"  trying  to  subdue  the  class 
with  his  looks.  But  of  no  avail.  His  patience 
gave  way,  and  he  cried  out  in  his  hoarse  voice: 
"Stop  hissing!" 

No  one  regarded  him.  Stamping  of  feet 
began  to  be  heard  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  hall. 
Ephraim,  who  sat  opposite  me,  joined  in  the  stamp- 
ing, and  commenced  slapping  the  book  before  him. 
Rabbi  Brill  paused  in  front  of  me,  his  patriarchal 
countenance  white  with  wrath,  and  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  Ephraim. 

"Stop  that,  you  rascal!"  he  shouted,  pointing 
his  finger  at  Ephraim. 

"  Raise  the  stipends !"  responded  Ephraim  boldly, 
hissing  and  stamping  his  feet  the  more. 

Rabbi  Brill  lifted  his  hand  and  let  it  fall  twice 
on  Ephraim's  cheek.  The  reports  of  the  slaps  hushed 
the  class  for  a  second,  but  the  next  instant  the 
confusion  increased.  A  prolonged  whistle  rang 
through  the  seminary.  At  once  all  the  lights  were 
turned  out,  and  a  shower  of  smashed  lamps  and 
their  chimneys  came  rattling  to  the  floor ;  benches, 
chairs,  tables,  and  everything  breakable  flew  up  in 
the  air  and  came  down  with  a  crash ;  a  large  tank  of 


The  "Sha"  109 

water  which  stood  at  the  entrance  was  turned  over; 
and  above  the  clapping,  stamping,  shouting,  whis- 
tling, and  hissing,  the  cry  arose  again  and  again  in 
chorus:  "Raise  the  weekly  stipends!"  "Raise  the 
weekly  stipends!" 

Rabbi  Brill  groped  his  way  out  of  the  darkness, 
but  the  Mashgiach  and  his  assistant,  who  were  less 
respected,  were  beaten  and  thrown  bodily  out  of 
the  hall  with  a  great  air-rending  cheer. 

As  soon  as  the  "Sha"  was  over  a  committee  of 
arbitration  was  sent  to  the  Rosh-H 'Shiva.  He,  or 
rather  his  young  wife,  immediately  granted  the 
raise  of  those  weekly  stipends  that  had  been  reduced, 
but  he  would  not  retract  the  other  decrees.  The 
offense  at  which  they  were  directed  could  not  be 
tolerated  in  a  Jewish  theological  school,  he  declared 
with  tears  in  his  eyes,  and  he  said  that  he  would 
rather  see  the  doors  of  the  Yeshiva  closed  forever 
than  permit  the  reading  of  " pernicious  books,"  as 
he  called  novels  and  philosophic  works. 

Ephraim  saved  others,  but  himself  he  could  not 
save.  The  authorities  could  not  overlook  the  part 
he  had  taken  in  this  uprising,  and  immediately 
ordered  his  expulsion. 

One  beautiful  springlike  morning  a  few  days 
later  a  light  cart  moved  slowly  through  the  main 
street  of  Javolin,  and  after  it  came  a  long  train  of 
whistling,  singing,  shouting  students.  When  the 
hilarious  procession  reached  the  mail-coach  road 
leading  to  Vilno  the  cart  halted  and  all  voices  were 


no  The  Fugitive 

hushed;  all  eyes  were  raised  to  Ephraim,  who 
mounted  the  cart.  He  waved  his  hat  and  expanded 
his  chest,  but  for  a  moment  it  seemed  he  could  not 
give  vent  to  his  overflowing  sentiments.  His  eyes 
glowed  like  burning  charcoal  and  his  whole  body 
quivered.  Then  he  controlled  himself  and  poured 
forth  his  ideas  with  all  the  passion  and  fire  of  his 
nature.  He  spoke  of  the  new  epoch  which  was 
beginning  with  the  young  generation,  of  fanaticism, 
of  enlightenment,  and  of  the  mysterious  future. 

The  audience  listened  breathlessly.  When  he 
had  finished  speaking  they  burst  into  a  frenzy  of 
cheering,  and  when  the  time  of  departure  came 
every  one  embraced  and  kissed  him. 

Long  after  the  happy  gathering  had  returned 
to  their  crude  studies,  long  after  the  cart  that 
carried  my  friend  had  disappeared  from  sight,  I 
stood  brooding  by  the  roadside,  with  my  head 
drooped  over  my  chest — just  as  I  had  stood  on 
"Bloody  Hill"  years  before,  when  Ephraim  had 
left  me  that  first  time.  I  was  again  left  friendless, 
and  again  I  began  to  brood  over  the  past,  yearning 
the  more  after  my  sweet  Katia,  and  longing  after 
the  books  I  had  read  in  her  house,  and  (with  shame 
in  my  heart  do  I  record  this)  a  faint  hatred  against 
the  Talmud  and  against  Jewish  life  generally 
struck  root  in  the  depths  of  my  heart. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
THE   REAWAKENING 

THE  following  summer  was  the  beginning  of  a 
great  epoch  in  the  history  of  the  Yeshiva,  and  also 
in  the  lives  of  all  Russian  Jews.  There  was  a 
reawakening — a  resurrection,  so  to  speak — of  the 
low-sunken  race.  The  flood  of  enlightenment  that 
streamed  from  western  lands  swept  even  through 
the  enclosures  of  the  uncouth  Ghettos. 

That  summer  the  broad-minded  monarch,  the 
emancipator  of  the  peasants,  also  showed  his  willing- 
ness to  liberate  the  Jews.  His  first  step  was  to 
admit  them  to  schools  from  which  they  had  been 
barred.  Hitherto  the  young  people  had  been 
restrained  within  by  the  demoniac  clutches  of 
fanaticism  and  without  by  the  tyrannical  hand  of 
the  Government.  The  announcement  of  the  relaxa- 
tion of  the  latter  flashed  through  the  dingy  Jewries 
like  a  new  light.  The  young  generation  was  dazzled 
with  the  brilliancy  of  the  opportunities  for  enlight- 
enment that  had  dawned  upon  them.  There  was 
confusion  in  the  synagogues  and  uprising  in  the 
Yeshivas.  Children  ran  away  from  their  fanatical 
parents,  and  young  Talmudists  from  their  wives. 

in 


us  The  Fugitive 

Haskolo !  Haskolo !  (culture)  became  the  cry  of 
the  young. 

Naturally  the  Mashgiach  and  his  "scouts"  were 
now  more  active  than  ever  and  kept  closer  watch 
over  the  students  on  the  "  suspected  list" — a  list 
that  included  the  very  brightest  students  of  the 
institution.  It  became  a  daily  occurrence  to  search 
students'  rooms,  break  open  their  trunks,  burn 
their  "forbidden  books,"  and  expel  them  from 
town  that  they  might  not  corrupt  others.  But 
these  acts  of  tyranny  could  not  destroy  the  craving 
for  the  new  thought.  Prohibited  literature  con- 
tinued to  be  read  behind  bolted  doors  and  in  seques- 
tered spots  of  the  woods  which  surrounded  Javolin, 
and  in  spite  of  the  Mashgiach's  careful  scrutiny  of 
the  mail,  "forbidden"  books  and  journals  continued 
to  be  smuggled  in.  It  was  even  discovered  that 
some  of  the  contributors  to  the  black-listed  maga- 
zines were  seminary  students,  who  concealed  their 
identity  under  fictitious  names. 

But  in  none  of  these  acts  of  insubordination  did 
I  take  part,  nor  did  the  least  suspicion  fall  upon 
me.  I  never  touched  a  literary  book  or  a  peri- 
odical, nor  did  I  even  breathe  to  any  one  that  I  could 
read  Russian.  The  faculty  wished  me  to  study 
the  Talmud  and  the  Talmud  only,  and  I  obeyed 
their  rules  religiously.  I  had  had  enough  trouble 
and  now  craved  peace.  I  followed  in  the  footsteps 
of  my  room-mate  Shmunke,  and  little  by  little  my 
mind  became  as  dull  and  inactive  as  his.  My  only 


The  Reawakening  113 

thought  apart  from  the  Talmud,  and  that  only  a 
fleeting  one,  was  a  fragmentary  recollection  of 
Katia  and  her  father.  Fanaticism  had  grown 
stronger  and  stronger  in  me  until  it  had  induced 
me  to  believe  that  to  think  of  anything  but  the 
Talmud — even  of  Katia — was  an  unpardonable  sin, 
and  I  scrupulously  avoided  all  sins. 

But  changes  happen  unexpectedly.  It  was  late 
— near  the  first  blush  of  morning.  I  sat  in  the 
Yeshiva,  swaying  my  body  over  the  Talmud  and 
trying  to  unravel  some  knotty  point.  For  there 
are  many  knotty  points  in  that  crude  and  mar- 
vellous Babylonian  encyclopedia,  to  which  hundreds 
of  commentators  have  copiously  added  knots  in 
their  earnest  endeavour  to  simplify  difficulties. 
There  are  Tesopheth,  Marshoa,  Mahram,  the  Rosh, 
and  numerous  other  hair-splitting  expounders,  each 
one  of  whom  is  trying  to  straighten  the  other,  only 
to  become  the  more  entangled  himself.  There  is 
no  end  of  questions  and  no  end  of  answers,  but  the 
radical  question  was  never  asked  and  never  an- 
swered. But  let  me  not  fall  into  the  Talmudic 
style,  but  proceed  with  my  story. 

Only  one  other  student  still  lingered  in  the  great 
class-room — Nehemiah  Rosencranz,  a  dark,  slight 
young  man  of  about  twenty-one  or  two,  with  a 
pair  of  nervous,  thoughtful  eyes  and  tightly  pressed 
lips.  The  younger  boys  looked  up  to  him  with  a 
feeling  which  almost  amounted  to  reverence.  The 
Mashgiach  and  his  scouts  would  hardly  have  dared 


ii4  The  Fugitive 

to  search  his  room,  even  if  they  had  suspected  him 
of  wrong-doing.  Rabbi  Brill  often  found  himself 
greatly  perplexed  when  Nehemiah  would  begin  to 
question  during  a  Talmudic  lecture.  Besides  honour, 
he  received  a  large  stipend,  which  enabled  him  to 
live  as  comfortably  as  the  richest  boys  of  the  school. 

I  occasionally  glanced  across  the  room  at  Rosen- 
cranz.  Several  times  I  saw  him  peer  around 
suspiciously.  My  curiosity  was  aroused  and  I 
watched  him  furtively.  I  soon  detected  that  he 
was  reading  a  little  volume  lying  between  his  large 
folio  of  Talmud  with  a  guilty  air  like  one  count- 
ing counterfeits.  I  stole  softly  behind  him,  and 
glancing  over  his  shoulder  I  saw  that  the  char- 
acters of  the  book  were  Russian. 

He  was  startled  as  he  looked  up,  and  hastily 
covered  the  pages  of  the  book  with  both  hands. 

*'  Don't  be  afraid,"  I  said.  "  I  merely  wished  to 
know  what  you  were  reading." 

His  face  grew  pale.  At  first  he  could  not  answer ; 
then  he  stammered:  "It  is  no — nothing." 

"  I  won't  denounce  you,"  I  reassured  him.  "  You 
may  show  me  the  little  book." 

He  stared  at  me  dubiously.  But  there  really  was 
but  one  course  open  to  him — to  take  me  into  his 
confidence.  He  looked  about  fearfully,  as  if  he  did 
not  trust  the  vacancy  of  the  large  room.  Then  he 
said  in  a  low  voice:  "This  is  Pushkin."  And  look- 
ing up  to  me  he  continued:  "Oh,  perhaps  you  don't 
know  who  Pushkin  is.  He  is  the  greatest  Russian 


The  Reawakening:  115 

poet,  and  his  verses  are  so  beautifully  wild  that  they 
almost  tear  my  heart  when  I  read  them." 

I  looked  incredulous.  I  wished  not  to  disclose 
to  him  the  fact  that  I  had  read  Pushkin.  Pre- 
tending perfect  ignorance  and  innocence,  I  returned: 
"I  would  not  read  such  poems." 

"Ah  !  it  is  because  you  do  not  understand  them," 
he  rejoined  warmly,  and  his  black  eyes  sparkled. 
"If  you  did  you  would  forget  eating  and  drinking 
and  sleeping  and  do  nothing  but  read  his  verses. 
It  makes  your  heart  throb  and  the  blood  in  your 
veins  run  warmer,  swifter.  It  is  not  like  the  Tal- 
mud— it  is  more  inspiring,  more  elevating." 

I   stared   amazed.     This  from  Rosencranz's  lips  ! 

I  still  feigned  innocence:  "But  they  are  gentile 
books !  How  can  you  compare  them  to  the  Tal- 
mud?" 

He  concealed  Pushkin  in  his  trousers  pocket 
and  paused  meditatively  a  few  minutes,  as  if  he 
were  hesitating  whether  or  not  to  speak.  The  dawn 
shone  through  the  long,  arched  windows  of  the 
seminary,  and  Rosencranz's  face  grew  paler  and 
more  greenish  from  the  cold  morning  light.  Then 
he  clasped  me  by  the  hand  and  spoke  impulsively: 
"You  are  blind — you  are  blind.  Do  not  remain  in 
darkness  and  nebulous  superstition.  Flee  from 
the  narrow  compass  of  the  synagogue.  There  is  a 
larger,  greater,  grander  sphere  than  that  circum- 
scribed by  the  boundaries  of  the  orthodox  faith. 
The  world  is  not  as  gloomy  and  sordid  as  you  have 


n6  The  Fugitive 

experienced  it  in  the  enclosure  of  our  self-made 
Ghetto.  Waste  no  more  of  your  profitable  youth 
and  vigour  of  boyhood  on  the  almost  obsolete 
genius  of  ancient  generations.  Not  everything 
that  is  old  is  necessarily  sacred,  and  nothing  is 
sacred  because  it  is  old.  Idolatry  is  the  oldest 
worship,  for  that  matter.  It  is  the  feebler  element 
in  man  that  reveres  age :  the  more  vigorous  vitality 
sympathises  with  old  age,  but  never  venerates  it." 

He  spoke  fervently;  his  eyes  glowed  with  inspi- 
ration. I  drank  in  every  word  that  fell  from  his 
mouth,  as  if  it  came  from  the  lips  of  a  prophet. 

"Many  youths,"  he  continued  zealously,  "who 
are  endowed  with  Hebrew  genius  and  who  should 
be  the  torch-bearers  of  true  civilisation  and  enlight- 
enment are  rotting  away  in  the  swamps  of  the  syna- 
gogue. Ah,  how  many  brilliant  gems — myriads  of 
them— sink  in  the  bottomless  Talmudic  mire  !  Russia 
— Lithuania  in  particular — is  an  inestimable  gold- 
mine, but  there  are  no  speculators  found  to  work  it. 
Oh,  the  Talmud  !  the  Talmud  !"  he  cried  out  with  real 
pain  and  agony,  his  lips  trembling  with  agitation, 
"that  golden  chain  that  throttles  the  Jewish  youths 
of  Russia !  Does  not  the  Talmud  itself  say,  in 
commenting  on  the  verse  'He  hath  set  me  in  dark 
places'  [Lamentations],  that  means  the  Babylonian 
Talmud  ?  But  our  people  are  beginning  to  open  their 
eyes  now  that  the  Czar  has  opened  the  schools  to  us. 
Ah !  one  decade  of  toleration  and  liberty,  and  our 
people  will  flourish  as  in  the  days  of  old.  It  takes 


The  Reawakening  117 

other  nations  a  century  to  make  a  progressive  step, 
but  it  takes  the  Jews  only  a  generation,  a  quarter 
of  a  century,  if  liberty  be  given  them,  to  overtake 
them  all.  Awake,  Israel !  The  hour  is  striking 
now.  If  you  oversleep  this  chance,  God  knows  when 
the  hour  will  strike  for  you  again." 

He  thus  poured  forth  his  feelings,  tears  glistening 
in  his  eyes.  He  laid  bare  before  me  the  conditions 
of  our  faith,  the  absurd  system  of  the  Yeshiva, 
how  much  energy  was  wasted  on  useless  studies 
while  there  were  so  many  better,  more  useful, 
nobler  things  for  which  to  spend  one's  life.  He 
told  me  of  a  secret  society  to  which  he  belonged, 
whose  object  was  the  promulgation  of  liberal  ideas, 
and  he  urged  me  to  join  it  and  come  into  the  light. 
All  this  stirred  the  slumbering  feelings  of  my  soul, 
revived  the  dying  recollections  of  Russian  litera- 
ture— of  Katia,  and  made  me  think  and  doubt. 

The  door  of  the  Yeshiva  opened  softly,  and 
Rabbi  Brill,  clad  in  a  long,  light  robe,  with  Tephilim 
(phylacteries)  on  his  head,  stepped  in  like  an  appa- 
rition. He  held  his  Mishna-pocket-edition  in  one 
hand,  with  his  index  finger  between  the  leaves, 
and  with  the  other  he  was  fondling  the  straps  that 
hung  down  from  the  Tephilim.  He  stopped  in  front 
of  Nehemiah  and  me,  and  smiling  benignly  said  in 
his  fatherly,  care-taking,  hoarse  voice,  "The  Yeshiva 
is  imposing  a  too  heavy  burden  on  you  children — 
always  Nehemiah  and  Israel,"  and  he  tapped  us  on 
the  shoulders  in  a  most  paternal  manner.  And 


n8  The  Fugitive 

raising  his  eyes  to  the  long  clock  that  hung  on  the 
wall  at  the  entrance,  he  added:  "So  late,  and  only 
two  of  you?" 


CHAPTER  XVII 
I    BEGIN   TO   DOUBT 

FAITH  is  like  a  heap  of  dry  sand:  unmolested  it 
may  lie  for  ages,  but  as  soon  as  one  grain  of  it  is 
disturbed  by  the  slightest  wind,  it  crumbles  away 
until  there  is  no  trace  of  it  left. 

Neither  my  stay  with  Judge  Bialnick  nor  the 
fiery  arguments  of  Ephraim  had  shaken  my  belief 
in  the  least.  The  exulting  talk  of  Rosencranz 
would  likewise  have  had  no  permanent  effect  upon 
me  had  he  not  immediately  begun  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  impression  he  had  made.  The  following 
day  he  gave  me  Spinoza's  Ethics.  That  book 
shattered  my  peaceful  belief  in  a  theological  God. 
The  next  book — which  he  borrowed  for  me  and 
brought  to  my  lodgings  hidden  under  his  coat 
— was  "The  Blunderer  in  the  Paths  of  Life."  My 
heart  throbbed  violently  as  I  glanced  at  its  title. 
This  novel,  which  had  just  appeared,  was  the  dread 
of  the  rabbis  and  fanatics  and  was  condemned  by 
the  Jewish  clergy.  The  vital  genius  of  its  author 
shook  the  very  foundation  of  Judaism.  It  was  a 
book  filled  with  graphic  descriptions  of  our  sordid 
Jewish  life  and  caustic  criticism  of  our  absurd 

119 


The  Fugitive 

religious  customs.     I  also  found  myself  a  blunderer 
in  the  paths  of  life. 

I  raced  feverishly  through  volumes  of  philosophy, 
history,  and  literature.  As  I  plunged  deeper  and 
deeper  into  modern  studies  (as  I  called  everything 
that  was  not  Talmudic)  a  scorn  for  theology,  and 
for  Jewish  learning  in  particular,  arose  in  my  heart. 
Finally  I  accepted  two  philosophic  truths:  "By 
good,  I  understand  that  which  we  know  is  positively 
useful  to  us.  By  evil,  I  understand  that  which  we 
positively  know  hinders  us  from  possessing  anything 
that  is  good."  And  I  asked  myself:  "Am  I  pur- 
suing good  by  the  study  of  the  Talmud  ?  Do  I  not 
positively  know  that  this  hinders  me  from  possess- 
ing everything  that  is  good?"  I  shuddered  as  I 
answered  myself. 

I  told  Nehemiah  of  my  thoughts,  and  he  smiled, 
saying:  "Well,  you  are  already  saved.  The  knowl- 
edge of  one's  ignorance  is  wisdom." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
I   AM   BE'T RAYED 

As  Shmunke  spent  about  eighteen  hours  daily  in 
the  Yeshiva,  I  pursued  my  new  studies  in  our  room 
without  fear  of  detection.  Shmunke's  fanaticism 
reached  the  point  where  religion  and  barbarism  meet. 
He  would  not  look  into  a  mirror  because  he  regarded 
such  an  act  effeminate,  and  he  would  not  pass 
between  two  women  on  the  ground  of  immorality. 
He  not  only  bore  the  yoke  of  orthodoxy,  but  he 
even  hated  with  the  zealous  hatred  of  a  savage  any 
one  who  did  not  bear  it.  However,  I  little  sus- 
pected that  he  was  spying  upon  me. 

One  cold,  rainy  spring  morning,  several  months 
after  I  began  my  new  studies,  I  was  brooding  over 
a  big  folio  of  Talmud,  though  my  thoughts  were 
far  from  the  subject  before  me,  when  the  Mashgiach's 
assistant  came  up  to  me  and  whispered  in  my  ear 
that  I  should  forthwith  appear  before  Rabbi  Brill. 
I  followed  him  out  of  the  Yeshiva  into  the  Rabbi's 
study,  my  brain  filled  with  wild  fears  of  evil.  Rabbi 
Brill  sat  in  his  large  arm-chair,  his  face  clouded  with 
sadness.  His  young  wife  stood  haughtily  in  the 
doorway  between  the  library  and  the  adjoining 
room.  Behind  the  Rabbi's  chair  stood  the  Mash- 

121 


122  The  Fugitive 

giach  and  his  scouts.  The  looks  of  all  of  them 
pinned  me  as  I  stepped  over  the  threshold:  the 
bigotry  of  a  Torquemada  was  stamped  on  each 
face  except  that  of  the  Rosh-H'Shiva.  One  of  the 
scouts  held  a  bundle  of  books  under  his  arm.  At 
the  sight  of  these  a  chill  went  through  me.  I  knew 
my  fate. 

"You  are  Israel  Teploffker,  and  you  have  your 
lodgings  with  Menke  the  tailor,  hey?"  inquired  the 
Mashgiach  in  his  hissing,  whistle-like  voice. 

I  made  no  answer. 

"Are  these  books  yours?"  he  demanded,  pointing 
at  the  bundle  under  the  scout's  arm. 

I  still  made  no  reply.  There  was  such  a  whirl 
of  emotions  within  me  that  I  could  not  have  spoken 
had  I  wanted  to.  Rabbi  Brill  held  his  sad,  piercing 
eyes  fixed  on  me  and  sighed  softly. 

"So  you  confess,  Teploffker,"  hissed  the  Mash- 
giach again,  "  that  these '  Epicurean  books'  are  your 
property  and  that  you  have  read  them?" 

My  hatred  of  orthodoxy  suddenly  flamed  up.  I 
was  on  the  point  of  answering  the  Mashgiach  by 
bursting  into  a  fierce  denunciation  of  Judaism,  but 
Rabbi  Brill  ordered  them  all  out  of  the  room  by  a 
wave  of  his  hand.  I  was  following,  knowing  well 
my  sentence,  when  the  Rabbi's  voice,  hoarse  as  if 
choked  with  tears,  checked  me. 

"  Listen,  my  child.  I  accepted  you  in  this  insti- 
tution when  no  other  place  was  open  to  you.  I 
allowed  you  a  stipend  almost  beyond  my  power. 


I  Am  Betrayed  123 

I  did  this  all  for  you  with  the  understanding  that 
you  should  study  the  Talmud.  But  you  have 
devoted  your  time  to  other  things — to  Haskolo; 
you  are  worshiping  strange  gods.  Modern  culture 
is  like  poison — a  cure  to  one,  death  to  another.  To 
Judaism  it  is  death." 

He  rose  from  his  seat,  and  laying  his  hand  gently 
on  my  shoulder  he  continued:  "Ah,  the  young 
generation !  Our  young  men  do  not  realise  the 
preciousness  of  the  Talmud.  It  is  now,  as  it  has 
been  in  centuries  past,  our  stronghold  and  a  pillar 
of  light  that  has  guided  us  through  all  darkness. 
But  for  it,  what  would  become  of  our  Jewish  brains, 
dulled  by  gentile  cruelty  and  persecution?  And 
what  would  our  morals  be  but  for  its  mighty  influ- 
ence? What  became  of  the  Karraites  after  they 
abandoned  the  Talmud?  Talmud  is  like  salt, 
which  must  be  preserved,  if  not  for  its  own  sake, 
for  the  preservation  of  the  Jew.  Its  beautiful 
legends,  its  instructive  precepts,  its  ethical  fables, 
its  brilliant  sayings,  and  the  vigorous  genius  that 
permeates  every  line  of  it — ah !  the  Talmud,  and 
the  Talmud  only,  has  made  the  Jew  indestructible, 
everlasting !" 

The  Rabbi's  voice  had  become  mournful,  and 
tears  were  trickling  down  his  face.  "The  gaudy 
appearance  of  European  civilisation  is  dazzling  the 
eyes  of  our  young.  The  same  was  true  when  Greece 
was  in  its  glory;  then  the  Jews  wished  to  shine  as 
Hellenes,  not  as  Jews.  The  same  happened  a  short 


ia4  The  Fugitive 

while  ago  in  Germany;  the  same  is  going  on  now 
in  our  own  land.  Ah" — he  sighed  deeply,  and  a 
stream  of  tears  gushed  forth  over  his  already  wet 
cheeks — "it  is  either  to  remain  a  Jew  in  the  old 
sense  or  give  up  Judaism  entirely.  The  inherent 
faculty  of  criticism  in  our  race  in  a  scientific  age 
will  not  tolerate  Judaism  or  any  other  religion. 
The  gentile  can  be  cultured  and  still  remain  true 
to  his  faith,  but  the  Jew  is  too  critical  for  that.  It 
is  either  belief  and  dogma  or  science  and  infidelism. 
What  has  become  of  most  of  the  followers  of  Mendels- 
sohn, who  planned  so  wisely  and  sincerely?  The 
great  Rabbi  and  philosopher  would  return  to  his 
grave  had  he  risen  to  behold  the  result  of  his  arduous 
labour.  Only  Moses  Mendelssohn  could  be  learned 
in  philosophy  and  be  a  Jew.  Woe!  Woe!"  and 
the  Rabbi's  tears  streamed  down  faster  and  faster. 
"Even  his  own  offspring,  his  sons  and  daughters, 
turned  their  backs  on  the  faith  of  their  noble  father. 
The  invention  killed  the  inventor." 

I  listened  to  all  this  with  a  drooping  head.  When 
he  had  finished  he  delivered  the  sentence  I  expected — 
I  must  leave  the  Yeshiva  at  once. 

I  hurried  to  my  lodgings.  Entering  the  house,  I 
found  my  landlord,  Menke,  at  his  working-table, 
with  a  disengaged  needle  in  his  hand,  his  spectacles 
lowered  almost  to  the  very  end  of  his  nose,  one  leg 
thrown  over  the  other  in  reflective  forgetfulness. 
His  wife,  at  his  side,  had  the  little  finger  of  her 
left  hand  between  her  lips,  her  right  hand  supporting 


I  Am  Betrayed  125 

the  elbow  of  the  left,  and  when  I  came  in  she  moved 
slightly  forward  and  heaved  a  deep  sigh. 

My  appearance  evidently  disconcerted  them. 
After  Menke  swallowed  a  lump  and  feigned  a  faint 
cough,  he  began  to  say  something,  but  a  glance  of  his 
helpmeet  silenced  him,  and  without  addressing 
any  one  in  particular  she  said:  "  Oi !  oi !  what  have 
we  come  to  in  these  days  !"  and  her  "  Oi !  "  seemed 
to  find  an  echo  in  her  husband's  heart.  "Oi!" 
he  also  intoned,  and  then  remained  sitting  and 
looking  abstractedly  with  the  disengaged  needle  in 
his  hand. 

"He!"  she  proceeded  dismally,  swaying  her 
heavily  bewigged  head.  "Who  ever  heard  of  such 
gzeires  [fatal  decrees]  in  former  years?  Who  ever 
heard  of  '  Epicurean  books '  ?  Nu !  nu !  what  an 
age  we  live  in !  Would  that  my  eyes  had  not  seen 
it !  We  took  him  [this  to  her  husband]  into  our 
home  to  be  an  associate  to  Shmunke,  who  is  a 
blessing  to  the  town,  and  now  at  last  even  Israel 
Teploffker  falls  into  Satan's  snares.  Nu !  what  an 
age  we  live  in !" 

Menke  was  again  about  to  say  something,  but 
was  silenced  by  another  look  from  his  spouse. 

I  came  into  my  room.  My  trunk,  or  rather  the 
wooden  box  that  served  as  a  trunk,  was  broken 
open,  and  all  my  books  and  papers  were  gone.  As 
I  stood  gazing  at  my  few  pieces  of  underwear  that 
had  been  thrown  out  of  the  box  and  now  lay  scat- 
tered about  the  room,  Shmunke  appeared. 


126  The  Fugitive 

"Epicurean,  renegade,  apostate,  sinner  in  Israel," 
he  accosted  me  in  his  nasal  voice,  "you  have  pol- 
luted our  house  with  your  unclean  books.  The 
Talmud  in  Sanhedrin  says :  '  He  who  reads  sacrile- 
gious books  will  not  enter  the  kingdom  of  heaven.' 
I  watched  you  for  a  long  while,"  he  continued 
zealously,  swinging  his  long  arms  like  the  revolving 
wings  of  a  windmill,  "until,  thank  God!  I  could 
inform  the  authorities  in  the  proper  time.  And 
you  get  out  of  this  house  this  very  minute." 

I  did  not  answer  a  word.  I  gathered  my  few 
belongings  from  the  floor  and  rolled  them  into  a 
bundle.  "Indeed,  this  very  minute,"  added 
Shmunke's  mother,  who  had  followed  him  into  our 
room.  "I  cannot  keep  you  in  my  house  a  half- 
second.  Oh !  oh  !  the  chorem  [ban] !  Only  four 
years  ago  the  two  daughters  of  'Avremil  der 
Schwarze'  died  in  one  night  because  Rabbi  Brill 
put  the  ban  on  them,  and  the  Mashgiach  told  me 
I  must  drive  you  out  of  the  house  without  a  second's 
delay  or  the  ban  will  follow."  Groone  wrung  her 
hands  as  she  delivered  this  monologue. 

"Oh!  oh!  the  chorem  I"  Menke  also  ventured 
the  remark,  but  a  glance  from  Groone  seemed  to 
put  him  off  again,  and  he  went  on  stitching  the 
stiff  lining  on  his  lap. 

Like  Adam  and  Eve,  "some  natural  tears  I 
dropped,  but  wiped  them  soon,"  and  "  with  wander- 
ing steps  and  slow"  I  took  my  solitary  way  from 
this  Paradise,  watched  by  the  piercing  glances  of  the 


I  Am  Betrayed  127 

cherubim,  Menke  and  Groone,  and  in  dread  of  the 
flaming  sword,  Shmunke,  "which  turned  every  way 
to  keep  the  way  of  the  tree  of  life." 


CHAPTER  XIX 
I   WANDER  AGAIN 

WHEN  driven  out  of  my  Garden  of  Eden  I 
repaired  to  the  synagogue.  In  Lithuania  the 
synagogue  is  a  lyceum  where  the  most  erudite  of 
the  Jewish  community  come  together  of  an  evening 
to  vie  in  advancing  hair-splitting  arguments  and 
technical  rigmarole  of  the  Talmud;  a  board  of 
trade  where  business  men  discuss  market  prices 
and  competition;  a  club  where  friends  meet  to  chat 
over  a  cigarette  or  a  pipe;  a  center  of  gossip  where 
everybody  talks  of  everybody  else ;  a  place  of  refuge 
for  the  poor  against  whom  every  other  place  is 
closed;  and  sometimes  an  arena  where  knotty 
fingers  and  matted  beards  come  in  close  contact, 
and  hats,  like  comets,  fly  in  the  air. 

So  to  the  synagogue  I  went  to  spend  the  night. 
Now  while  I  write  I  see  myself  sitting  in  a  corner, 
between  two  tall  book-cases  crammed  with  ancient 
volumes,  and  near  the  Dutch  oven  that  reached  to 
the  high  ceiling.  My  eyes  are  so  blurred  with  tears 
that  everything  about  me  is  watery  and  dark.  I 
stare  stupidly  in  front  of  me  without  thinking  of 
anything  in  particular.  Fragments  of  the  past 
come  and  go  like  small  tatters  of  clouds  in  a  stormy 

128 


I  Wander  Again  129 

sky;  they  shift  and  float  and  drive  one  another, 
but  I  see  nothing  clear,  nothing  definite.  One 
moment  I  think  of  the  present,  and  my  heart  swells 
with  deadly  hatred  against  the  Jews  and  their 
religion  and  their  rabbis.  Another  moment  my 
anger  against  my  own  people  is  allayed.  I  recall 
Judge  Bialnick ;  I  think  of  the  peasant's  confession ; 
I  vaguely  reflect  upon  the  incidents  of  my  father's 
death.  And  again  my  sore  heart  smarts  and 
burns  with  hatred — not  against  the  Jews,  but 
against  the  world  that  enslaved  and  degraded 
them.  And  again  the  Jew — the  old  generation — 
the  young  generation — prejudice;  and  again  my 
brain  burns  with  fever  at  the  cruelty  of  their  fa- 
naticism. Ah,  Katia !  Katia !  like  a  flash  of  light- 
ning that  splits  the  clouds  asunder,  her  face,  her 
voice,  the  vivid  recollections  of  her  charming  ways 
recurred  to  my  mind.  Ah,  Katia  !  Katia  !  the  lapse 
intervening  between  her  and  the  present  vanishes, 
and  my  heart  is  yearning,  craving,  burning  with 
anguish  and  desire  to  see  her,  to  talk  to  her,  to 
ask  her  for  help. 

Toward  morning  one  desire  took  definite  shape 
amid  the  chaos  of  my  mind — a  desire  to  emancipate 
myself  from  the  Jewish  bondage,  to  become  free — 
free,  and  cast  off  the  yoke  that  crushed  my  father, 
my  grandfather,  and  his  father  before  him — to 
work  and  work  and  work  and  become — not  a  great 
rabbi,  who  sinks  in  the  mire  of  superstition  and 
fanaticism — but  a  great  man  such  as  Katia  wished 
to  see  me,  like  Pushkin  or  Gogol  or  Lermontoff. 


130  The  Fugitive 

Thus  my  whole  past  flashed  through  my  mind, 
and  the  present  stood  before  me  in  all  its  grimness. 
My  heart  became  oppressed  with  bitterness.  I 
wished  I  could  cry  aloud,  so  that  the  big  syna- 
gogue, the  market-place,  the  town,  and  the  sur- 
rounding fields  and  forests  and  brooks  and  ponds 
would  echo  again  and  again  the  great  anguish 
of  my  soul. 

At  daybreak  I  took  my  little  bundle  under  my 
arm  and  left  the  synagogue.  I  had  decided  to 
go  to  Vilno.  Vilno  was  the  Lithuanian  Jerusalem, 
where  the  Jews  were  already  awakening  from  their 
fanatical  slumber.  There  perhaps  I  might  find 
means  to  continue  my  "modern  studies"  in  the 
gymnasium.  I  had  no  money  to  hire  a  coach,  so 
I  made  up  my  mind  to  walk.  The  distance  was 
only  a  hundred  versts,  and  I  could  get  there  on  foot 
in  four  days. 

At  the  close  of  the  day  I  arrived  at  a  small  town 
wholly  inhabited  by  Jews.  As  I  came  into  the 
principal  thoroughfare,  the  Beadle,  with  his  head 
thrown  back  and  his  hands  over  his  ears,  rushed 
through  the  streets  proclaiming  in  stentorian  voice, 
"In  Shool  Herein!"  which  was  the  signal  for 
merchants  to  close  their  places  of  business  and  go 
to  the  synagogue.  I  was  reminded  that  it  was 
Friday.  As  I  was  hungry  and  fatigued  from  my 
long  trip,  I  decided,  if  I  could  get  a  place  to  stay, 
to  remain  here  over  the  Sabbath. 

I  went  to  the  synagogue  and  inquired  for  the 


I  Wander  Again  131 

Shammes  (sexton).  I  found  him  standing  on  a 
high  chair,  with  several  assistants  around  him, 
lighting  the  candles  of  the  traditional  Menorah 
(candlestick).  He  was  a  dwarfish  man  with  wet 
peiis  and  a  shiny  forehead.  In  response  to  my 
question  as  to  whether  he  could  procure  me  a  place 
in  which  to  stay  over  the  Sabbath,  he  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  grumbled:  "Too  late  now — too 
late."  However,  after  I  had  incidentally  informed 
him  that  I  came  from  Javolin  Yeshiva  a  certain 
deference  came  into  his  manner  and  he  said:  "Stay 
here  till  after  service." 

I  was  ashamed  to  beg,  but  what  will  not  a  person 
do  when  he  is  tired  and  hungry,  without  a  farthing 
in  his  pocket  ?  After  service  the  dwarfish  Shammes 
invited  me  to  follow  him  to  the  entrance  hall.  I 
took  my  stand  beside  him  at  the  door  and  patiently 
waited. 

"Gut  Shabbos — Gut  Shabbos,"  the  worshipers 
saluted  each  other,  every  face  wearing  a  look  of 
contentment;  "Gut  Shabbos,"  the  children  greeted 
their  fathers;  "Gut  Shabbos,"  the  poor  submissively 
greeted  the  rich;  "Gut  Shabbos,"  the  humble  beg- 
gars greeted  everybody;  "Gut  Shabbos — Gut  Shab- 
bos," kept  on  buzzing  in  the  synagogue  as  the 
large  crowd  passed  through  the  narrow  hallway. 

Presently  the  Shammes,  who  had  been  scanning 
the  passersby,  stopped  one  of  the  worshipers — a 
venerable-looking  man  with  a  fine,  broad,  jet-black 
beard  and  happy,  smiling  eyes,  who  was  followed 


132  The  Fugitive 

by  two  men,  one  on  crutches  and  the  other  with  an 
empty,  dangling  sleeve.  "Gut  Shabbos,  Reb* 
Dovidle — Gut  Shabbos,"  the  Shammes  greeted  him. 

"Gut  Shabbos,  Reb  Samson,"  returned  Reb 
Dovidle. 

"Reb  Dovidle,"  proceeded  the  Shammes  respect- 
fully, and  scratching  the  back  of  his  head,  "a — 
Reb  Dovidle — a — a  young  man — a — a — a  student 
from  Javolin — a " 

"  Indeed !  indeed !  "  the  good-natured  Reb  Dovidle 
interrupted  him.  "  I  always  like  to  have  Mezumen 
[three  men  to  the  benediction]  at  my  table.  Why, 
certainly,  let  him  come." 

Samson  introduced  me  to  Reb  Dovidle,  who 
extended  me  a  cordial  invitation  to  remain  with 
him  over  the  Sabbath. 

As  Reb  Dovidle,  his  young  son,  whom  he  led  by 
the  hand,  and  I  approached  his  house,  two  little 
children  came  running  to  meet  their  father,  with 
joyous  shouting:  "Gut  Shabbos,  papa — Gut  Shab- 
bos." He  bent  down,  kissed  them,  and  the  children 
clung  to  the  skirts  of  his  frock  coat.  Opening  the 
door,  Reb  Dovidle  greeted  in  a  low  cadence  of 
voice:  "Gut  Shabbos,  Gittele— Gut  Shabbos." 

His  wife,  Gittele,  beamed  with  joy  and  her 
diamond  ear-rings  twinkled  as  they  bobbed  in  the 
light  of  the  candle  on  the  table.  Everybody  looked 
happy — Sabbath  eve  spoke  from  every  face.  Reb 
Dovidle  kissed  his  dark-haired  daughter,  leaned 

*  Used  in  the  sense  of  Mr. 


I  Wander  Again  133 

his  hands  on  the  little  children's  head  and  mur- 
mured a  blessing.  Then  walking  leisurely  up  and 
down  the  room  and  clapping  his  hands  gleefully, 
he  hummed:  "Who  can  find  a  virtuous  woman? 
For  her  price  is  above  rubies.  The  heart  of  her 
husband  does  safely  trust  in  her,  so  that  he  shall 
have  no  need  of  spoil.  She  layeth  her  hands 
to  the  spindle,  and  her  hands  hold  the  distaff. 
She  stretcheth  out  her  hand  to  the  poor,  yea,  she 
reacheth  forth  her  hand  to  the  needy,"  etc. 

Thus  hummed  the  happy  Reb  Dovidle  in  Hebrew, 
and  his  soft  voice  quavered  in  quaint  undulations 
while  he  beamed  upon  his  wife  and  children  "like 
olive  plants  round  about  the  table."  Gittele  read 
in  a  low  tone:  "Peace  be  to  you,  angels  of  service, 
angels  eternal  of  the  King  of  Kings,  the  Holy  One, 
blessed  be  He." 

During  the  meal  Reb  Dovidle  asked  me  how  long 
I  had  stayed  at  Javolin  and  where  I  was  going,  to 
which  I  replied  (with  shame  do  I  record  it)  not  the 
truth,  but  rather  what  I  thought  best  for  me.  Then 
he  asked  me  if  I  knew  of  a  young  man  who  would 
like  to  teach  Hebrew  in  a  small  village  about  fifteen 
miles  away.  Without  waiting  for  my  answer  he 
added:  "The  work  would  not  be  hard.  My 
brother-in-law  has  only  a  little  boy  of  about  seven 
and  a  daughter  of  about  seventeen.  The  instruc- 
tor would  have  to  be  with  them  only  a 'few  hours 
a  day." 

I  was  silent  a  moment.    It  occurred  to  me  that 


134  The  Fugitive 

here  was  a  good  opportunity  to  make  a  little  money 
to  tide  me  through  my  first  uncertain  weeks  in 
Vilno.  So  I  told  him  I  was  willing  to  accept  such 
a  position  myself  for  the  summer. 

And  early  Sunday  morning  I  started  for 
Dubrovka,  armed  with  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
Mr.  Nosen  TakifL 


CHAPTER  XX 
I  BECOME  A  TEACHER 

I  HAD  no  difficulty  in  finding  the  house  of  Mr. 
Takiff,  for  Reb  Dovidle  had  told  me  he  was  an  inn- 
keeper, and  that  there  was  but  one  inn  in  this 
little  straggling  village.  The  long  corridor  which 
ran  through  the  center  of  the  inn  to  the  bar-room 
was  crowded  with  half-drunken  peasants,  who 
jostled  me  as  I  picked  my  way  through  them,  and 
the  bar-room,  hazy  with  the  smoke  of  vile  tobacco, 
was  also  filled  with  vodka-soaked  muzhiks,  who 
laughed  and  jabbered  and  swore. 

"Play!"  a  drunken  peasant  roared  at  a  flaxen- 
haired  lad  who  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  room 
tightening  the  keys  of  a  violin. 

"  Play,  Vanka,  play !  "  several  other  voices  broke 
out  impatiently  at  the  fiddler. 

"Hey,  Vanka,  Kraskucha  [a  peasant's  dance]!" 
cried  a  robust  muzhik  beauty,  with  a  red-and-blue 
dotted  kerchief  covering  her  sandy  hair  and  with 
a  strand  of  green  beads  around  her  full  neck. 

"A  Kraskucha!  a  Kraskucha!"  the  crowd 
approved  vociferously;  and  in  appreciation  of 
the  girl  who  proposed  the  dance  a  peasant  embraced 
her  and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth.  Then  came  the 


136  The  Fugitive 

scraping  of  the  violin,  stamping  of  feet,  jostling, 
pushing,  hugging,  slapping,  shouting,  whistling, 
laughing,  and  the  uproarious  dance  was  on  again. 

A  few  minutes  of  this  sufficed  for  me.  I  asked 
of  the  man  who  was  serving  the  drinks  for  the 
master  of  the  house,  and  was  led  across  a  narrow 
passage  which  separated  the  inn  from  Mr.  TakifFs 
living  quarters  into  a  comfortably  furnished  sitting- 
room.  An  elderly  woman  with  a  frank,  genial  face 
greeted  me. 

"My  husband  will  soon  be  at  leisure,  and  will 
be  only  too  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said  after  I  had 
told  her  I  had  a  letter  of  introduction  to  him.  "  Per- 
haps you  are  hungry?"  she  immediately  added. 
And  turning  around,  she  spoke  to  a  dark-eyed  girl 
who  sat  reading  at  the  other  end  of  the  room: 
"Malke,  dear,  show  this  young  man  into  the  dining- 
room." 

Very  much  pleased  with  this  cordial  welcome,  I 
followed  the  young  girl. 

Soon  the  innkeeper  appeared,  slowly  puffing  at  a 
long-stemmed  pipe.  Though  at  first  sight  he  seemed 
to  me  an  old  man,  on  account  of  his  round,  gray 
beard,  he  was  no  more  than  forty-five.  He  was 
tall  and  strongly  built,  and  had  a  full  white  face 
with  a  small,  thin  nose  (the  Jew's  nose  is  not  as 
long  as  it  is  pictured)  and  with  brown  eyes  that 
sparkled  with  youth.  He  wore  a  velvet  skull-cap 
and  a  long,  black  frock. 

He  shook  me  by  the  hand  warmly,  and  settling 


I  Become  a  Teacher  137 

himself  in  a  chair  opposite  me  began  to  read  the 
letter  I  had  handed  him. 

As  his  daughter  set  the  meal  before  me  I  placed 
my  hands  over  my  eyes,  as  if  from  fatigue,  and 
scrutinised  her  through  my  fingers.  Her  face  was 
decidedly  handsome.  Her  nose,  like  her  father's,  was 
of  Russian  type,  and  her  eyes  were  black  and 
almond-shaped ;  her  lips  were  red  and  slightly  curled, 
and  her  complexion  was  a  warm,  rosy  brown ;  and 
when  she  put  the  knife  and  fork  on  the  table  I 
noticed  that  her  fingers  were  white  and  long. 

Mr.  Takiff  looked  up  from  his  letter  long  enough 
to  glance  at  the  table.  "Malke,"  he  said  to  his 
daughter,  "you  have  forgotten  the  salt.  You  are 
dreamy  of  late,  my  child." 

A  faint  blush  passed  over  her  face.  She  smiled 
and  murmured  some  excuse,  which  afforded  me  a 
chance  to  see  her  white  teeth  and  the  little  dimples 
in  her  cheeks.  While  I  ate  the  savoury  meal  that 
the  girl  had  placed  before  me,  the  innkeeper  smoked 
silently  at  his  long  pipe  and  observed  me  thought- 
fully. 

"My  brother-in-law  writes  me,"  he  began,  after 
I  had  drawn  away  from  the  table,  "that  you  will 
be  willing  to  stay  here  and  teach  my  daughter  and 
son  Hebrew  and  the  Prophets." 

I  corroborated  Reb  Dovidle's  statement,  and 
said  that  I  would  do  my  best  with  his  children  if 
he  saw  fit  to  employ  me. 

With  that  we  went  forthwith  to  business,  and 


138  The  Fugitive 

after  we  had  agreed  as  to  the  terms  I  was  formally 
engaged  as  instructor  to  the  innkeeper's  two 
children. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
I  FIND  MY  DUTIES  VERY  AGREEABLE 

THE  following  day  my  duties  began.  It  is  true 
the  time  spent  with  little  Jacob  was  a  trifle  monot- 
onous and  irksome,  but  the  hours  spent  in  instruct- 
ing Malke  were  not  at  all  tedious.  From  the  first 
I  found  pleasure  in  her  lesson  period,  and  this 
pleasure  grew  keener  and  keener.  She  was  of  a 
naturally  happy  disposition,  mirthful  and  witty, 
but  at  times  melancholy  fits  would  come  upon  her, 
and  she  would  mope  about  the  house  with  a  sad, 
far-away  look  in  her  eyes.  I  could  not  understand 
these  widely  varying  moods,  but  I  had  a  faint  feel- 
ing that  she  was  being  preyed  upon  by  some  secret 
grief. 

My  time,  aside  from  that  devoted  to  my  pupils, 
was  also  well  spent.  The  climate  was  fresh  and 
wholesome,  the  environing  scenery  picturesque,  a 
large  forest  at  a  stone's  throw,  and  my  many 
hours  of  leisure  afforded  me  ample  opportunity  for 
meditation  and  day-dreams  in  which  I  took  infinite 
delight.  For  appearance's  sake  I  kept  a  volume  of 
Talmud  in  my  room,  though  I  never  opened  it,  and 
in  its  stead  I  made  good  use  of  a  number  of  literary 
works  which  I  found  in  Malke's  library,  as  well  as 


140  The  Fugitive 

of  the  Bible,  which,  in  spite  of  my  skepticism,  was 
my  favourite  book.  And  at  night,  alone  in  my 
quiet  chamber,  I  would  lie  awake  and  think  of  the 
past — always  of  the  incidents  of  the  past ;  the  future 
stood  hazily  before  me  like  a  prophecy,  on  which  I 
never  cared  to  dwell  too  long.  In  such  moments 
my  thoughts  would  travel  back  to  Katia,  and  with 
one  arm  thrown  loosely  over  my  eyes  and  my  face 
turned  ceilingward  I  would  muse  for  hours.  The 
remembrance  of  her  father,  like  a  tatter  of  cloud, 
would  soon  begin  to  eclipse  the  happy  light  of  my 
mind,  but  each  time  I  would  relegate  this  thought 
by  sheer  force  of  will,  and  continue  my  delightful 
rumination  undisturbed.  At  last  my  heavenly 
dream  would  end  in  a  crushing  sense  of  hopelessness. 
I  would  become  conscious,  as  we  often  do  in 
dreams,  that  I  was  merely  dreaming  a  dream  that 
could  never  come  true.  And  slowly  this  charming 
vision  would  move  back,  back,  and  then  sink  lower 
and  lower,  like  a  setting  sun,  and  a  new  phantasm 
would  take  its  place.  Vaguely  I  would  begin  to 
think  of  my  pupil;  indefinitely  her  expressive  look 
would  stand  before  me ;  faintly  her  voice,  full  of 
pathos,  would  ring  in  my  ears ;  and  little  by  little  I 
would  become  possessed  with  a  feeling,  a  desire, 
as  uncertain  as  the  image  in  my  mind's  eye.  I  would 
thus  continue  to  muse  until  all  else  would  leave  my 
brain  except  the  thought  of  Malke.  The  last 
thought  would  lend  speed  to  the  beating  of  my 
heart  and  would  stir  my  passions.  "She  seems 


I  Find  My  Duties  Very  Agreeable  141 

to  find  no  interest  in  me"  would  flash  through  my 
mind.  And  insignificant  little  incidents  which  had 
passed  between  Malke  and  me  would  immediately 
spring  to  memory,  defining  more  clearly  the  thought 
that  had  just  crossed  my  mind.  This  thought 
would  fill  me  with  burning  jealousy,  and  jealousy 
would  arouse  my  feelings.  The  more  I  thought  of 
Malke's  indifference  to  me,  the  more  I  desired  her 
friendship — her  affections,  if  possible. 

These  half -jealous,  half-arduous  sentiments  finally 
got  full  possession  of  my  heart  and  brain.  The 
lessons  began  duly  with  the  opening  of  a  book, 
but  hardly  ever  proceeded  further  than  a  few  half- 
hearted questions  and  aimless  answers.  Then  we 
would  forget  the  lesson  and  talk  disjointedly  or 
remain  silent,  each  engrossed  in  secret  thoughts. 
Malke  would  sit  looking  out  of  the  window,  her 
cheeks  all  aglow  with  a  feeling  for  which  I  could 
see  no  cause,  and  I — poor  bundle  of  sentiments — 
would  interrupt  this  silence  at  intervals  only  to 
talk  as  none  but  imbeciles  and  lovers  can,  while 
the  slumbering  passions  of  a  recluse  stirred  me  to 
a  fury. 

She  was  always  frank  and  natural  with  me;  she 
treated  me  much  as  she  might  have  treated  a 
brother  of  her  own  age.  She  would  pull  my  hair 
and  stroke  my  chin  playfully,  and  she  found  great 
delight  in  teasing  me.  I  resented  both  her  sisterly 
attitude  and  the  jests  at  my  expense.  Frequently 
her  witty  remarks  made  me  writhe,  and  I  would 


142  The  Fugitive 

decide  that  if  she  again  spoke  to  me  in  that  way  I 
would  pay  her  back  in  the  same  coin.  But  I  never 
did.  In  her  presence  I  was  as  submissive  as  a 
faithful  dog. 

But  there  were  some  happy  moments — when  she 
would  gaze  dreamily  at  me  with  those  strange  eyes 
of  hers,  her  hair  falling  loosely  over  her  white  fore- 
head, her  breast  quickly  heaving.  I  would  beguile 
myself  for  a  few  throbbing  moments  with  the  hope 
that  these  looks  betokened  love  for  me,  and  I  would 
forget  all  else.  My  ambition  to  become  a  distin- 
guished man,  my  hopes  to  make  a  name  for  myself 
as  Katia  wished  me  to  do — even  thoughts  of  Katia, 
who  had  aroused  in  me  this  ambition — would 
quickly  vanish,  and  my  only  desire  would  be  to  stay 
in  Dubrovka  and  give  instructions  to  this  country 
girl  forever  and  ever. 

Every  morning,  when  the  rising  sun  was  streaking 
the  window-panes  of  my  chamber  with  purple 
light,  I  would  quickly  dress,  seize  the  Prophets  or 
Psalms,  and  run  out  into  the  blooming  garden  which 
was  in  front  of  Malke's  chamber.  I  would  stretch 
myself  upon  the  grassy  ground,  and  with  an  open 
book  in  my  hand  lose  myself  in  the  divine  poetry 
of  the  king  of  prophets,  Isaiah,  or  reflect  upon  the 
consoling,  soul-inspiring  verses  of  David.  I  would 
look  up  to  the  blushing  sky  above,  to  the  verdant 
trees  all  around,  the  floating  sunbeams,  feel  the 
cool  earth  beneath  me — then,  ah!  then  I  would 
fathom  the  great  singer's  meaning  !  "  Who  covereth 


I  Find  My  Duties  Very  Agreeable  143 

Himself  with  light  as  with  a  garment ;  who  stretcheth 
out  the  heavens  like  a  curtain;  who  layeth  the 
beams  of  His  chambers  in  the  water;  who  maketh 
the  clouds  His  chariot ;  who  walketh  upon  the  wings 
of  the  wind.  He  sendeth  the  streams  into  the  valleys 
which  run  among  the  hills;  by  them  the  fowls  of 
the  heavens  have  their  habitation,  which  sing 
among  the  branches;  the  trees  of  the  Lord  are  full 
of  sap.  O  Lord,  how  manifold  are  Thy  works ! 
The  earth  is  full  of  Thy  riches.  I  will  sing 
unto  the  Lord  as  long  as  I  live;  I  will  sing 
praises  to  my  God  while  I  have  being."  Homer, 
Virgil,  Chaucer,  Heine,  Byron,  Shelley — who  of 
them  could  express  so  much  beauty  in  lines 
so  few? 

One  morning,  as  I  lay  stretched  on  the  ground, 
reading  and  pronouncing  the  lyrical  words  of 
Psalms  which  chimed  in  my  ears  like  exquisite 
music,  Malke  opened  the  window  of  her  chamber 
and  thrust  out  her  head.  Her  eyes  were  only 
half  open,  and  the  mist  of  sleep  was  still  hovering 
over  her  face. 

"Why  did  you  get  up  so  early?"  she  asked  me, 
and  faintly  blushing  as  she  covered  her  partly 
exposed  bosom  with  her  naked  hand. 

I  raised  my  eyes  to  hers,  and  beholding  her  head 
resting  between  her  hands,  her  luxuriant  hair 
hanging  down  her  bare  neck  like  a  loosened  skein 
of  silk,  her  rising  and  falling  breast  between  her 
arms,  I  faltered  shyly,  "Ah,  it  ia  so  beautiful!" 


i44  The  Fugitive 

and  I  spread  my  arms  and  dropped  them  in  de- 
spair. 

She  smiled,  blushed,  and  lowering  her  .head  she 
asked  me  to  pluck  a  violet  for  her. 

I  was  delighted  to  obey  her,  to  be  of  some  service 
to  her,  to  please  every  whim  and  fancy  of  hers. 

As  I  handed  the  flower  to  her  she  bent  forward 
through  the  open  window,  and  smelling  the  violet 
she  murmured,  "What  a  delicious  fragrance  !"  and 
glanced  blushingly  at  my  face  with  a  charming 
twinkle  in  her  eyes. 

She  remained  leaning  on  the  window-sill  and 
staring  in  front  of  her  meditatively,  while  I  gazed 
and  gazed  at  her  face,  that  spoke  of  unsatiable  life, 
youth,  passion,  beauty.  The  garden  with  those 
many  trees  and  shrubs  and  flowers  and  birds,  the 
shimmering  sky,  the  spreading  sunbeams,  the  ver- 
dant earth,  the  delicious  air,  the  blooming  maiden 
with  that  wondering  gaze  of  hers — ah !  Nature 
in  all  her  splendour  and  supreme  beauty  stood 
before  me. 

She  again  glanced  at  me,  with  a  sad  smile  playing 
around  her  lips,  and  with,  what  I  thought,  teasing 
mockery  she  said  in  a  very  low  tone,  "Ah,  it  is  so 
beautiful!"  and  her  pretty  head  disappeared. 

I  threw  myself  upon  the  ground  with  the  book 
clasped  to  my  breast,  and  looked  listlessly  at  the 
bits  of  sky  screened  by  the  branches  above  me. 

In  my  heart  I  felt  a  longing  mixed  with  venom. 
She  was  so  near  to  me,  and  yet  her  confidence  in 


I  Find  My  Duties  Very  Agreeable  145 

me,  her  frankness,  her  calmness,  her  self-possession 
in  my  presence,  indicated  the  distance  between  us. 

Thus  passed  the  summer  in  a  state  of  doubt  and 
despair.  Malke  grew  more  and  more  absent- 
minded  and  melancholy.  She  frequently  spoke  to 
me  of  her  lack  of  friends,  of  the  monotony  of  her 
life,  and  expressed  a  longing  to  visit  theaters  and 
attend  balls  as  did  ladies  of  big  cities. 

One  day  she  asked  abruptly:  "Israel,  is  it  such 
a  great  sin  to  marry  a  gentile?  Magdeline  Gru- 
bovski,  the  surveyor's  daughter,  says  she  would 
marry  a  Jew  if  she  only  loved  him,  and  she  is  a 
Christian.  Why  should  it  be  a  greater  sin  for  a 
Jew  to  marry  a  Christian?" 

I  could  give  no  definite  answer  to  this,  so  I  said 
nothing.  Then  she  resumed:  "I  like  Magdeline 
so  much.  She  has  parties  and  balls,  and  oh !  what 
nice,  gallant  gentlemen  come  to  her !  I  have  been 
invited  many  times,  but  I  do  not  like  to  go  there 
because  the  young  men  call  me  'pretty  Jewess,'  and 
they  seem  to  take  more  liberties  with  me  than  with 
Magdeline.  But  they  are  so  pleasant,  so  polite. 
Isn't  Count  Losjinski  handsome?  Did  you  notice 
how  erect  he  walks  ?  How  beautiful  his  long,  black 
mustache  becomes  his  dark-blue  eyes  !  He  always 
pulls  and  twirls  his  mustache  when  he  talks  to 
me,  and  he  acts  very  strangely.  Once  he  said  to 
father — in  a  joke,  of  course — that  if  he  could  get  a 
girl  like  me "  Here  she  burst  into  feigned  laugh- 
ter and  covered  her  blushing  face  with  both  hands. 


146  The  Fugitive 

"Isn't  it  nice  of  him  to  say  that?  He's  a  count 
and  owns  this  village  and  the  next,  and  what  a 
palace  he  has !  Think  of  his  marrying  a  plain 

Jewish  girl Why  do  you  keep  so  quiet,  Israel  ?  " 

she  asked  abruptly.  "You're  always  angry  at  me 
when  I  speak  of  Count  Losjinski.  You're  a  good 
little  tutor,  nevertheless,"  she  added,  emphasising 
every  syllable  by  stroking  my  chin  in  a  playful 
manner  and  laughing  sweetly.  How  little  I  under- 
stood the  world  or  even  myself !  I  did  not  know 
that  there  is  something  deeper  in  words  than  the 
mere  meaning  of  them;  that  things  spoken  are 
only  a  part  of  what  one  wishes  to  convey ;  that  in 
order  to  understand  a  person,  one  must  be  able  to 
divine  that  part  of  his  thought  which  remains 
unsaid.  The  first  instructor  of  this  enigmatic 
language  is  love,  and  the  best  pupil  is  the 
lover. 

Not  long  after  this,  Count  Losjinski  stopped  for 
a  few  minutes  at  the  inn.  His  coachman,  who 
was  a  baptised  Jew,  amused  the  bar-room  by  talking 
Yiddish  and  reciting  Hebrew  blessings,  which  we 
thought  very  strange.  Malke's  little  brother  asked 
his  father  what  became  of  the  coachman's  soul  when 
he  turned  Christian.  The  innkeeper  smilingly 
replied  that  after  the  conversion  the  Jewish  soul 
was  changed  into  a  gentile  one.  Malke  wondered 
very  much  and  could  not  see  the  difference. 

"Papa,  what  is  the  soul,  anyhow?"  Malke 
asked  her  father  with  a  pensive  air. 


I  Find  My  Duties  Very  Agreeable  147 

"A  soul  is  that  part  of  godliness,"  explained  her 
father,  "that  every  Jew  possesses." 

"Has  not  a  gentile  that  part  of  godliness  in  him, 
father?"  asked  the  girl  again. 

"This  is  too  deep  for  you  to  understand,  my 
child,"  responded  Mr.  Takiff,  and  puffed  at  his 
pipe.  "You're  a  girl,  and  a  woman's  brain  is  not 
able  to  comprehend  such  serious  problems.  A  Jew 
whose  soul  was  present  on  Mount  Sinai  when  the 
Torah  was  given  to  Israel,  as  the  Talmud  says, 
has  got  that  part  of  godliness  because  he  answered : 
'All  that  the  Lord  spoke  we  will  do  and  hear.'" 

This  explanation  did  not  seem  to  satisfy  Malke. 
"Will  not  the  gentiles  have  Gan-Eden  [heaven], 
father  ? "  she  resumed.  "  Not  even  Count  Losjinski, 
who  is  so  good  to  every  one  and  favours  the  Jewish 
people  in  particular?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  my  daughter.  The  Talmud  also  says : 
'All  good  gentiles  will  have  the  world  to  come. 
In  heaven  all  will  be  Jews.'" 

"  It  will  be  so  nice,"  laughed  Malke.  "All  will  be 
alike  and  there  will  be  no  more  Jews  and  gentiles, 
but  all  the  same,  and  the  Jews  will  be  permitted 
to  own  land  in  their  own  names,  like  gentiles,  and 
will  be  allowed  to  live  everywhere,  even  in  St. 
Petersburg  and  Moscow." 

"Oh,  you  fool!"  interrupted  her  little  brother. 
"In  Gan-Eden  all  the  noblemen  will  make  fire  in 
Jewish  houses  and  snuff  the  candles  on  Shabbos. 
And  Vanka,  who  calls  me  Christ-killer,  will  carry 


148  The  Fugitive 

mamma's  prayer-book  to  the  synagogue  on  Shabbos. 
It  will  be  so  nice!"  The  innocent  little  martyr, 
who  already  bore  the  yoke  of  the  Torah,  clapped 
his  wee  hands  and  danced  with  joy. 


CHAPTER  XXII 
A  PROPOSAL  OF  MARRIAGE 

MRS.  TARIFF  often  sighed  because  Malkele,  as 
she  fondly  called  her  daughter,  was  already  going 
on  eighteen  and  there  was  "nothing  suitable"  for 
her.  Shadchonim  (marriage  brokers)  proposed 
many  bridegrooms,  and  each  one  whispered  to 
Reb  Nosen  (as  they  addressed  him)  that  he  had 
the  very  best  article  in  the  market.  But  none 
quite  satisfied  the  innkeeper.  As  for  Malke,  who 
of  course  was  never  consulted  when  the  merits  of 
the  various  candidates  were  being  considered,  she 
was  as  heedless  of  all  this  matrimonial  talk  of  her 
parents  as  if  she  had  been  a  girl  of  twelve. 

One  afternoon  at  the  end  of  August  we  were  in 
the  sitting-room — Mr.  Takiff,  in  his  big  arm-chair 
before  an  open  window,  puffing  at  his  long  pipe, 
Mrs.  Takiff  mending  a  stocking,  Malke  working 
over  a  piece  of  embroidery,  and  I  scanning  the 
pages  of  a  Russian  book — when  Koppel  the  Shad- 
chan,  who  had  taken  a  keen  interest  in  Malke's 
future,  appeared  before  the  window  at  which  Mr. 
Takiff  sat. 

"Good  afternoon,  Reb  Nosen,"  he  said,  with  his 
indolent,  oily  smile  on  his  face. 

149 


150  The  Fugitive 

"Shalom  Aleichem,"  returned  Mr.  Takiff,  offering 
his  hand  through  the  open  window.  "  How  do  you 
come  here  at  this  time  of  the  day?" 

"What  a  question— ha!  ha!  ha!  ha!"  The 
Shadchan's  laugh  was  dry  and  cackling.  "Isn't 
a  person  allowed  to  pay  you  a  visit?  When  one 
has  merchandise  he  should  not  close  the  door 
against  a  prospective  purchaser."  And  winking 
significantly  he  cackled  again. 

"Well,  Reb  Koppel,  well,"  rejoined  Mr.  Takiff 
somewhat  eagerly,  "anything  new?" 

"Sure,  indeed,  Reb  Nosen.  The  very  article  you 
are  looking  for  is  at  hand,  and  one  to  suit — I  should 
rather  say  becoming  —  an  honourable  Jew  like 
Reb  Nosen  Takiff.  Well" — spreading  his  arms 
— "a  young  man  who  is  a  rarity  among  mil- 
lions— millions,  I  say;  of  the  very,  very  choicest  in 
the  realm  of  Lithuania.  An  Illui  upon  whom  thou- 
sands of  wealthy  fathers  are  casting  their  eyes  and 
are  trying  to  take  him  into  their  nets.  '  But  no,  no/ 
said  I  to  myself,  and  my  wife  said  the  very  same, 
'this  goldfish  must  go  to  no  one  else  but  Reb 
Nosen's  daughter.'  You  see" — he  drew  an  old, 
dirty,  tattered  note-book  from  his  pocket — "Baas 
Reb  Nosen  UJavolin  Illui  [the  daughter  of  Nosen 
for  the  Javolin  prodigy].  He !  he !  he !  Koppel 
the  Shadchan  is  no  fool." 

"Well,  well,  come  into  the  house  and  let  me  hear 
what  you  have  to  say." 

The  Shadchan  disappeared  from  the  window  and 


A  Proposal  of  Marriage  151 

a  moment  later  was  with  us  in  the  sitting-room. 
He  had  an  extinguished  corn-cob  pipe  in  his  mouth, 
and  he  playfully  swung  a  gnarled  cane  between  his 
thumb  and  forefinger,  which  were  yellow  from  the 
tobacco  he  snuffed.  He  was  a  man  of  medium 
size,  with  a  weazened  head,  which  he  carried  bent 
slightly  forward  and  to  one  side.  His  eyes,  set 
deep  in  their  sockets,  were  overhung  by  shaggy 
eyebrows;  his  beard,  though  thin,  was  broad  and 
long,  and  his  peiis  fell  to  his  shoulders.  He  wore 
a  long  caftan,  the  skirt  of  which  registered  his 
movements  on  his  shining  boots,  into  the  tops  of 
which  his  trousers  were  stuck.  The  caftan  was  of  a 
distinguished  appearance,  parted  in  the  back  in  the 
fashion  of  a  frock  coat,  but  pinned  together  at  the 
very  bottom  so  that  it  might  be  technically  regarded 
as  having  but  two  corners  and  so  be  exempt  from 
tzitzis.*  Only  the  lowest  button  of  his  coat  was 
fastened;  the  upper  part  hung  loosely  forward, 
exposing  a  large  red  handkerchief  protruding  from 
his  inside  pocket,  where  a  snuff-box  could  invari- 
ably be  found. 

"Good  morning,  bride,"  the  Shadchan  bowed 
to  Malke,  who  blushed  scarlet  at  this  salutation. 

"Go,  my  daughter,  to  the  next  room,"  said  Mr. 
Takiff.  "We  have  something  to  talk  about  which 
is  not  fit  you  should  hear." 

Malke  left  the  room,  agitated  and  blushing.     But 

*Fringes,  which,  according  to  some  rabbinical  law,  four-corner 
garments  are  to  have. 


1 52  The  Fugitive 

I,  in  an  agony  of  expectation,  pretended  not  to  hear 
the  last  remark  and  remained  in  my  seat. 

The  Shadchan  took  off  his  hat,  leaving  his  head 
covered  with  an  old,  threadbare  skull-cap,  and 
settled  himself  in  a  chair  which  the  host  pushed 
toward  him.  Koppel  dropped  a  large  pinch  of 
snuff  into  the  hollow  of  his  left  hand,  and  raising  it 
to  his  nostrils  drew  in  the  pungent  stuff  with  one 
long  breath. 

"Pshtzi !  pshtzi !  pshtzi !"  he  sneezed  three  times, 
applying  the  red  handkerchief  to  his  nose  as  a  pro- 
tection for  his  host. 

"  I  can  never  start  a  conversation  of  any  impor- 
tance before  I  take  a  little  snuff,"  the  Shadchan 
commented,  wiping  his  mouth  and  nose.  "It 
clears  my  mind  and  eyes,  and  I  tell  you,  Reb  Nosen, 
I  become  fresh  and  vigorous  after  a  little  sneezing. 
It  is  simply  a  refreshment — a  restorer  of  strength. 
And  I  tell  you  there  is  none  better  than  Kalman's 
snuff  in  the  whole  world.  It's  a  real  heaven  on 
earth,  so  help  me  God,  and  it  prepares  me  for  active 
work.  By  the  way,  snuff  does  not  cost  me  any- 
thing. Kalman  promised  to  give  me  as  much  as 
I  want  gratis,  in  addition  to  the  five  per  cent,  com- 
mission he  paid  me  for  the  match  of  his  daughter." 

"Of  the  snuff  we'll  talk  later,"  said  Nosen  a  little 
impatiently.  "Let  us  approach  our  subject." 

"God  be  with  you,  Reb  Nosen,  have  not  the 
Talmud  sages  said:  'Matchmaking  is  as  hard  as 
the  task  of  Moses  in  dividing  the  waters  of  the 


A  Proposal  of  Marriage  153 

Red  Sea '  ?  The  Talmud  also  says,  '  Be  patient  in 
your  judgment,'  and  we  must  weigh  our  words 
before  we  decide.  Well,  now,  Reb  Nosen,  I'll  light 
one  of  your  Prussian  cigars,  and  we'll  instantly 
proceed  to  business." 

Mr.  Takiff  took  the  hint  and  handed  him  a  cigar. 

"In  short,"  the  Shadchan  resumed,  "I  have  for 
you  a  young  man — a  jewel,  a  gem,  whose  real  value 
a  Rothschild  only  could  pay  for;  and  furthermore, 
a  real  Talmud-Chochom  Ben  Talmid-Chochom  [a 
disciple  of  wisdom,  the  son  of  another].  As  the 
Talmud  says:  'One  should  give  his  daughter  in 
marriage  to  the  son  of  the  Law.'  The  truth  is" — 
here  he  stretched  his  neck  and  emitted  a  thin  curl  of 
smoke — "that  I  am  too  ignorant  to  mention  the 
qualities  that  prodigy  possesses.  A  young  man 
that  has  the  six  parts  of  the  Talmud  at  his  fingers' 
ends,  and  can  tell  the  word  a  hundred  pages  ahead 
if  you  stick  a  pin  through  a  certain  spot ;  a  wonderful 
scribe  whose  handwriting  is  like  print,  and  who  can 
read  Poskim  [  a  digest  of  the  Talmud  ]  in  his  sleep, 
so  may  the  Creator  of  the  universe — blessed  be 
His  name ! — help  me  to  accomplish  my  undertaking 
in  a  happy  hour.  Of  course  you  know  Rabbi 
Brill  of  Javolin ;  he  told  me  that  the  young  man  is  a 
shining  star  in  Israel  whose  brilliancy  will  illumine 
our  holy  people  in  exile.  As  to  his  personal  beauty" 
— here  he  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  made  a  motion 
with  his  hands  as  if  to  drive  away  an  imaginary 
opponent — "he  looks  like  an  angel.  God's  grace 


154  The  Fugitive 

rests  upon  him.  Tall,  majestic,  and  in  his  white-and- 
crimson  face  there  is  the  reflection  of  angels,  so  may 
the  Lord  send  a  blessing  wherever  I  turn." 

He  paused  for  a  moment  to  wipe  the  perspiration 
from  his  forehead.  Nosen  Takiff  nodded  his  head 
in  silent  approval. 

"As  to  the  dowry,"  the  Shadchan  continued, 
"we  have  little  to  say.  He  has  been  offered  ten 
thousand  and  fifteen  thousand  rubles,  but  of  course 
to  an  aristocrat  like  Reb  Nosen — well,  he  would 
go  for  a  little  less.  I  believe  you  once  told  me  that 
you  were  willing  to  give  your  daughter  six  thousand 
rubles.  Well,  when  you  get  such  a  rare  gem  you 
will  not  mind  to  add  two  thousand.  This  young 
man  is  worth  every  penny  of  it,  so  help  me  the  One 
Above — every  groschen.  Yes,  this  is  what  I  call  a 
bargain  which  could  not  be  had  by  the  richest  of  our 
brethren.  Why,  did  you  never  hear  of  the  Javolin 
Illui?"  He  looked  with  such  astonishment  at  Mr. 
Takiff  that  the  latter  blushed  at  his  own  ignorance. 

"  So  may  the  Holy  One — blessed  be  He  ! — help  me 
find  suitors  for  my  own  marriageable  daughters — 
even  babes  have  heard  of  him !  Oh,  Reb  Israel," 
he  turned  to  me,  as  if  just  seeing  me,  "you  here ! 
I  did  not  notice  you  at  all.  Young  fellows  like  you 
must  not  listen  to  talk  of  marriage;"  this  with  his 
oily  smile.  "When  you  will  be  ripe  enough  I'll 
get  you  a  nice  girl  with  a  big  dowry." 

With  my  heart  throbbing  painfully  over  what  I 
had  heard  I  went  into  the  dining-room.  There  I 


A  Proposal  of  Marriage  155 

found  Malke,  pale  and  apprehensive,  pretending  to 
read  a  book.  I  thought  I  detected  the  signs  of 
fresh  tears  on  her  cheeks. 

In  about  an  hour  Mr.  Takiff  came  into  the  room 
where  we  sat,  smiling  blissfully.  "My  daughter," 
he  announced,  "next  Friday  your  intended  one  is 
going  to  stay  Shabbos  with  us." 

Malke  did  not  utter  a  word,  but  her  beautiful 
face  changed  colour,  a  few  tears  trickled  down  her 
cheeks,  and  the  book  in  her  hand  slipped  to  the 
floor.  "  Oh,  Israel,  I  am  so  unhappy — so  unhappy ! " 
she  whispered;  and  without  giving  me  a  chance  to 
reply  she  slipped  away  to  her  bedroom. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 


FRIDAY  night  arrived.  Having  spent  all  after- 
noon brooding  in  the  forest,  I  had  not  seen  the 
Choson  (bridegroom),  who  had  arrived  a  little 
before  sunset  and  was  now  in  the  parlour  chanting 
prayers  with  Mr.  Takiff.  I  found  the  dining-room 
brightly  illuminated,  the  finest  cloth  spread,  and 
the  best  dishes  arranged  on  the  table,  and  Mrs. 
Takiff,  in  a  new  silk  gown  and  a  white  apron,  was 
reading  from  her  prayer-book  and  frequently  raising 
her  eyes  in  the  direction  of  Malke's  room.  She 
likewise  had  not  seen  the  Choson  and  was  nervously 
awaiting  his  appearance. 

"Tell  Malke  to  hurry  with  her  toilet  and  come 
to  the  dining-room,"  said  Mrs.  Takiff  to  me  as  I 
came  in. 

I  found  Malke,  who  had  remained  in  her  room  all 
day,  lying  on  her  bed  with  her  head  buried  in  the 
pillows.  When  I  delivered  my  message  she  an- 
swered dully:  "I'll  come  in  soon." 

In  a  few  minutes  she  entered  the  room  and  sat 
down  quietly,  her  face  white  and  drawn.  Her 
mother  glanced  at  her  pale  face  and  quietly  dropped 
her  eyes  upon  the  prayer-book  before  her.  My 

156 


The  Bridegroom  157 

heart  ached  with  love  and  sympathy  for  Malke. 
I  wished  to  speak  to  her,  but  I  dared  not  and  could 
not. 

We  sat  in  an  embarrassing  silence  till  the  door 
opened  and  Mr.  Takiff  ushered  in  a  young  man. 

Heavens !  Shmunke  Menke  Shmunke's  stood 
before  me  in  all  his  ugliness.  His  tall,  lank  figure, 
with  his  head  drooped  over  his  chest,  looked  like  a 
faded  sunflower  bending  the  stalk  of  its  weight. 
His  stooping  shoulders  seemed  to  have  become 
more  rounded,  and  the  corkscrew  curls  that  hung 
over  each  ear  had  certainly  lengthened.  He  wore 
a  coat  that  almost  swept  the  floor,  and  an  octagonal- 
shaped  hat  with  a  long  visor  that  overshadowed 
his  greenish  eyes. 

"Gut  Shabbos,"  he  bashfully  stammered. 

Mr.  Takiff  turned  to  his  wife.  "  Sarah,  this  is  the 
bridegroom." 

Malke's  face  changed  from  white  to  scarlet,  then 
to  white  again.  I  had  a  great  desire  to  knock 
down  this  invited  idiot,  though  I  could  not  clearly 
see  how  he  was  to  blame.  Neither  Malke  nor  I  was 
introduced  to  Shmunke.  I  managed  to  sit  at  one 
end  of  the  table,  and  as  his  eyes  rarely  left  his  plate 
I  escaped  recognition. 

During  the  meal  Mr.  Takiff  tested  the  young 
man's  sharpness  in  the  Talmud.  The  host  ques- 
tioned and  the  bridegroom  answered  with  wonder- 
ful quickness.  Mr.  Takiff 's  admiration  was  plainly 
read  on  his  face;  he  was  ecstatic  over  finding  his 


158  The  Fugitive 

future  son-in-law  so  well  equipped  for  the  battle-field 
of  hair-splitting  discussions.  The  Choson  did  not 
exchange  a  word  with  his  -fiancee  that  night;  once 
I  noticed  him  glance  through  the  corner  of  his  eye 
at  the  silent,  trembling  girl,  but  he  bashfully  dropped 
his  eyes  as  soon  as  she  looked  up. 

Depressed  and  miserable,  I  sneaked  out  of  the 
room  in  order  to  avoid  Shmunke.  I  spent  all  of  the 
next  day  in  the  forest  on  the  pretense  of  feeling  ill. 
I  hated  the  whole  world — Mr.  Takiff  for  bringing 
this  Talmudic  imbecile,  Mrs.  Takiff  for  not  chasing 
Shmunke  out  of  the  house,  and  I  almost  hated  even 
Malke  because  she  kept  silent. 

The  following  evening  the  betrothal  took  place. 
Malke,  sad  and  pale,  did  not  utter  a  syllable  or 
even  show  a  smile  during  the  ceremony.  When 
broken  clay  pots  and  dishes  came  rattling  down 
in  a  shower,  celebrating  the  solemn  event  in  accord- 
ance with  the  traditional  Jewish  custom,  she  stared 
blankly  in  front  of  her.  I  noticed  her  mother  once 
turn  aside  and  wipe  her  eyes.  But  Mr.  Takiff  was 
so  lost  in  the  Talmudic  labyrinth  and  so  elated  in 
spirit  that  he  paid  little  attention  to  his  child  and 
her  sufferings. 

The  bridegroom  did  not  exchange  a  word  with  his 
bride  this  night,  either,  but  sat  surrounded  by  a 
coterie  of  Talmudists,  who  were  called  together  by 
Mr.  Takiff  to  test  the  "Illui's"  sharpness  and 
knowledge.  For  an  hour  Shmunke  swayed  himself 
to  and  fro,  while  he  explained  in  his  nasal  voice  some 


The  Bridegroom  159 

knotty  point  of  Talmudic  law.  Half  a  dozen  were 
quizzing  him  at  once,  and  to  all  of  them  Shmunke 
replied  with  lightning  rapidity. 

"  Pish!  pish!  an  Illui — ach,  an  Illui!"  the  guests 
whispered  to  one  another,  and  shrugged  their 
shoulders  in  great  admiration. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 
FATHER  AGAINST  CHILD 

THE  days  passed  rapidly,  bringing  Malke  nearer 
and  nearer  to  the  day  set  for  her  marriage.  Her 
feelings  for  Shmunke  were  obvious  to  me,  but  she 
spoke  very  little  to  any  one,  and  even  with  me  she 
went  no  further  than  to  say  that  she  was  very, 
very  unhappy. 

A  few  days  before  the  Jewish  New  Year,  while 
we  were  all  loitering  at  the  table  after  we  had 
finished  dinner,  Mr.  Takiff  took  notice  of  the 
silent  dejection  of  his  daughter.  "What  ails  you, 
Malke?"  he  asked  gravely.  "You  seem  to  forget 
that  your  Choson  will  be  with  us  Succoih  [the  Feast 
of  Booths],  and  that  the  wedding  is  not  far  off." 

Malke,  who  had  been  sitting  with  her  cheek  in  her 
hand,  made  no  reply.  She  only  bit  her  lip  and 
tightened  her  mouth. 

"  Nosen !  Nosen  !"  admonished  his  wife,  who  must 
have  guessed  how  sore  her  daughter's  feelings 
were. 

"What  a  simpleton  you  are!"  he  said  impa- 
tiently to  his  wife.  "  Can't  you  see  Malke's  indiffer- 
ence to  her  Choson,  who  is  a  real  gem?  Why 
do  you  look  as  if  you  had  the  nightmare?"  he 

1 60 


Father  Against  Child  161 

demanded  of  Malke,  irritated  by  her  silent  aversion 
to  his  choice. 

Malke's  lips  tightened  again,  her  chin  trembled; 
then  a  flood  of  tears  burst  from  her  eyes.  And 
tugging  nervously  at  her  jacket  she  faltered  in 
a  low  tone:  "I  will  not — marry — that — ugly — 
stupid — scarecrow ! " 

These  words  were  like  a  spark  in  a  heap  of  powder. 
1 '  What ! "  he  cried,  jumping  to  his  feet.  ' '  What !  you 
don't  want  to  marry  this  Illui,  this  great  and 
wonderful  genius!  He  stupid!"  His  voice  rose 
to  a  shriek  in  his  excitement.  "Do  you  mean  to 
instruct  me  to  whom  I  shall  marry  you?  Do  you? 
Do  you  perhaps  wish  to  marry  a  gentile — hey?" 

"Nosen!  Nosen!"  implored  Sarah. 

Mr.  Takiff  did  not  heed  his  wife's  appeal.  "  Whom 
do  you  wish  to  marry,  outcast?  Ha  !  ha  !  ha !"  he 
laughed  bitterly.  "She  don't  want  the  Illui  whom 
Rabbi  Brill  consults  in  rendering  decisions.  Who 
ever  heard  of  a  Jewish  girl  objecting  to  her  father's 
choice  ?  Mercy !  what  are  we  coming  to  ?  You 
perhaps  would  like  to  have  one,"  he  continued 
sarcastically,  and  his  whole  frame  quivered  with 
anger,  "who  writes,  and  smokes  a  cigar  on  Shabbos, 
and  who  rides  on  horseback  on  the  holy  rest-day — 
such  a  one  my  tznuah  [virtuous  one]  wishes  to 
marry.  Heavens  !  Would  that  my  ears  were  deaf 
to  such  open  blasphemy  from  the  mouth  of  my 
own  flesh  and  blood.  The  Illui  or  the  grave!" 
As  he  shouted  this  last  he  brought  his  fist  down 


1 62  The  Fugitive 

upon  the  table  with  such  force  that  the  dishes 
danced. 

"Nosen!  Nosen!"  cried  his  wife  again,  rising 
and  taking  his  arm. 

But  he  threw  off  her  hand  and  paced  up  and 
down  the  floor,  gazing  wrathfully  at  Malke,  who  sat 
weeping  with  her  head  upon  the  table.  Then  he 
remained  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room  for 
a  minute  or  two  with  both  hands  at  his  temples,  as 
if  a  dreadful  thought  had  flashed  through  his 
brain,  and  suddenly  rushed  out  of  the  room  and 
slammed  the  door  after  him. 


CHAPTER  XXV 
"YoM  KIPPUR" 

THE  family  storm  abated  after  this  fierce  out- 
burst. Mr.  Takiff,  who  was  a  very  devoted  father, 
had  simply  lost  control  of  himself  for  the  instant. 
He  was  now  all  kindness.  Of  course,  it  never  for 
an  instant  occurred  to  him  to  yield  to  Malke's 
desire;  but  he  began  to  try  to  reconcile  her  to  the 
coming  marriage  by  reciting  the  great  virtues  and 
ability  of  her  Choson  and  by  drawing  pictures  of 
the  happiness  and  the  honour  that  the  Illui  would 
bring  her.  Malke  scarcely  replied  to  his  persua- 
sions— a  silence  which  the  father  mistook  for  tacit 
acquiescence. 

We  had  planned  to  spend  the  Day  of  Atonement 
in  Gonsmar,  a  town  seven  versts  distant,  where 
the  family  always  went  to  worship,  as  there  was 
no  synagogue  in  Dubrovka.  On  the  morning  be- 
fore the  Day  of  Atonement,  Mr.  Takiff,  Mrs. 
Takiff,  and  even  little  Jacob  rose  early,  beaming 
with  happiness;  for  just  as  the  following  day  is 
devoted  to  earnest  prayer  and  self-denial,  this  day 
is  one  of  festivity  and  rejoicing.  It  is  incumbent 
upon  every  God-fearing  Israelite  to  feast  and  thank 
the  Great  Creator  a  hundred  and  one  times.  And 

163 


.: 


1 64  The  Fugitive 

in  order  to  fulfill  this  commandment,  Mr.  Takiff 
took  a  bite  of  various  kinds  of  fruit  and  offered  a 
blessing  each  time. 

Despite  the  general  happiness,  Malke  looked  so 
sad  and  ill  that  her  mother  suggested  it  would  be 
wise  for  her  to  stay  at  home  if  she  would  not  feel 
lonesome.  Malke  expressed  her  preference  to 
remain,  and  it  was  so  settled. 

At  dinner  we  dipped  our  bread  in  honey — this 
being  a  symbolic  prayer  that  the  coming  year  may 
be  as  sweet  as  the  bread  we  ate.  After  dinner  we 
prepared  to  start  for  Gonsmar.  Mr.  Takiff,  who 
made  a  grand  appearance  in  his  long,  black  holiday 
coat,  called  together  his  servants  and  gave  them 
orders  not  to  sell  or  execute  any  transaction  the 
next  day.  Suddenly  Mrs.  Takiff  began  to  weep, 
crying  that  she  feared  to  leave  Malke  behind. 
But  her  husband  laughed  at  her  forebodings,  and 
said  if  Malke  wished  to  remain  at  home  she  might 
remain.  Malke  threw  her  arms  about  her  mother 
and  kissed  her  again  and  again,  and  embraced  and 
kissed  her  father,  her  warm  tears  trickling  down 
his  white  beard.  He  kissed  her  and  blessed  her 
in  the  old  Hebrew  fashion.  She  did  not  speak  a 
word,  but  I  could  see  that  her  tears  almost  stifled 
her. 

"I  shall  pray  for  you  to-morrow,"  her  father 
said,  as  he  stood  upon  the  threshold  of  the  house, 
"and  you  should  also  pray  for  us." 

Malke  wiped  her  eyes,  but  did  not  venture  upon 


"Yom  Kippur  "  165 

an  answer.  After  we  had  left  the  house  Sarah 
went  back  to  kiss  her  once  more. 

As  we  rolled  away  in  the  carriage  I  glanced 
back  at  Malke.  My  heart  almost  broke  at  sight  of 
her,  standing  on  the  porch,  her  hands  clasped 
before  her,  her  face  streaming  with  tears.  Another 
instant,  and  the  thick  forest  had  shut  her  from  my 
view.  But  the  picture  of  her  weeping  in  the  door- 
way, with  interlocked  hands,  was  still  vivid  before 
me — as  it  is  even  now  whenever  I  think  of  her. 

On  arriving  at  Gonsmar  we  left  our  carriage  at 
an  inn  and  at  once  repaired  to  the  synagogue. 
The  yard  about  the  house  of  worship  was  crowded 
with  people.  Immediately  before  the  entrance  of 
the  synagogue  there  stood  a  long  table  on  which 
plates  were  placed  marked  "Hospital,"  "Orphan 
Asylum,"  "  Hakhnoses-Kalo  "  (to  bring  poor  maidens 
into  wedlock),  and  with  the  names  of  the  various 
other  charities  of  the  community.  Before  each 
plate  sat  some  prominent  member  of  the  congre- 
gation. 

Mr.  Takiff  stopped  before  the  long  table,  bade 
them  all  "Gut  Yomtov,"  and  dropped  five  rubles 
in  one  plate,  ten  in  another,  three  in  another,  until 
he  had  contributed  to  every  one  of  them. 

The  passage  from  the  table  to  the  door  was 
blocked  by  scores  of  wretched  cripples,  orphans, 
and  widows,  who  begged  in  most  pitiful  tones. 
As  every  well-to-do  man  entered  the  synagogue 
yard  he  was  surrounded  by  these  poor  creatures, 


1 66  The  Fugitive 

who  perhaps  had  been  waiting  all  the  year  for  this 
charitable  season,  and  who  implored,  in  the  name 
of  their  hungry  wives,  mothers,  and  children,  that 
they  be  helped  with  a  few  copecks. 

The  experience  of  all  was  our  experience.  Dozens 
of  hands  were  stretched  out  for  alms  as  we  came 
up  to  the  synagogue  door.  "May  you  live  a  thou- 
sand years,  good  Jew  !  Have  pity  on  a  poor  cripple," 
jumped  up  one  with  a  wooden  leg.  "Oh,  eternal 
health  to  you  and  your  wife  and  your  children, 
Mr.  Takiff.  Give  something  to  a  poor  widow  with 
nine  children,"  a  haggard  woman  pulled  Mr.  Takiff 
by  his  sleeve.  "May  you  live  to  see  great-great- 
grandchildren; have  mercy  on  a  poor  orphan  who 
has  a  mother  lying  sick  in  bed,"  pleaded  a  ragged 
boy.  "  Oh,  pray,  give  me  something.  Good  life  and 
health  to  you!  I  have  eleven  children,  and  my 
husband  lies  sick  in  bed  with  a  broken  leg,"  entreated 
a  woman  with  a  babe  at  her  breast.  In  response 
to  all  these  pleas,  Mr.  Takiff  drew  a  bagful  of 
silver  coins  from  under  his  long  coat  and  distributed 
its  contents  to  the  miserable  alms-seekers.  That 
done,  we  entered  the  synagogue. 

The  large  building  was  filled  to  its  very  doors 
with  pious  worshipers,  some  of  whom  read  from 
books  and  cried  softly;  others  shook  their  bodies 
violently  and  shouted  in  most  agonising  despair; 
and  still  others  wept  and  moaned  and  beat  their 
breasts  as  if  they  meant  to  strike  them  through 
and  through.  They  were  all  robed  in  white  shrouds, 


"Yom  Kippur"  167 

over  which  were  thrown  loosely  white  and  black 
praying-shawls.  Hundreds  of  wax  candles,  stuck 
in  a  large  box  of  sand,  burned  before  the  altar, 
and  hundreds  of  them  flickered  in  the  deep  recesses 
of  the  windows. 

Some  belated  people  with  penitent  faces  were 
pulling  off  their  boots  and  unfolding  their  shrouds; 
many  remained  at  the  door  shaking  hands  and 
asking  forgiveness  of  one  another,  and  with  tears 
in  their  eyes  expressing  regret  for  the  past;  here 
and  there  others  happily  extended  wishes  of  a 
"good  seal"  to  their  neighbours.  For  on  the  Day 
of  Atonement  all  must  be  friends.  "Sins  between 
man  and  his  Maker  are  forgiven  on  Yom  Kippur," 
laid  down  the  Talmudic  sages,  "but  sins  of  one 
man  against  another  are  not  atoned  for  until  the 
wrong-doer  asks  forgiveness  from  the  person 
wronged." 

The  T'philo  Zako  (the  Pure  Prayer)  had  already 
begun  when  we  arrived.  I  also  opened  a  prayer- 
book  and  murmured  the  Pure  Prayer,  but  my 
mind  travelled  back  to  Malke  with  her  bowed  head 
and  clasped  hands. 

A  resounding  clap  on  the  big  hollow  table  at 
the  altar  suddenly  silenced  all  noises.  Only  the 
irrepressible  sob  of  a  bitter  heart  or  the  broken 
weeping  of  women  from  the  gallery  disturbed  the 
quietude.  All  rose  with  faces  uplifted.  The 
silence  grew  deeper;  nothing  but  the  soft  tread  of 
shoeless  feet  was  heard;  these  were  the  footsteps 


1 68  The  Fugitive 

of  the  seven  white-bearded  elders  of  the  congre- 
gation. The  snow-white  curtain  overhanging  the 
Oren-Kodesh  was  drawn  aside;  the  portals  were 
opened.  At  sight  of  this  there  came  a  look  of 
awe  in  every  countenance.  Each  of  the  elders  took 
out  a  scroll  of  the  Torah,  kissed  it,  and  holding  it 
to  his  breast  marched  to  the  altar,  where  the  seven 
formed  a  ring.  Breathing  almost  stopped — it  was 
a  moment  too  reverential  for  tears,  too  solemn  for 
prayer. 

The  choir  waited  for  the  sexton's  signal;  the 
sexton  waited  for  a  motion  from  the  rabbi.  At 
length  the  signal  came.  The  leader  of  the  choir 
gave  a  faint  cough  to  clear  his  throat,  and  in  a 
tremulous  minor  key  began  the  quaint,  traditional, 
melodious  Kol-Nidro.  The  voices  of  the  choir  rose 
and  fell,  swelled  and  narrowed,  all  in  the  saddest 
of  tones,  and  the  congregation  groaned  and  moaned 
and  wept.  The  hymn  was  repeated  three  times, 
and  after  each  time  an  amen  was  intoned  that 
sounded  like  the  sudden  bursting  of  a  dam. 

Unconsciously  tears  gathered  in  my  eyes.  I 
bowed  my  head,  and  there  came  upon  me  a  burning 
realisation  of  the  meaning  of  this  period  of  self- 
denial — this  day  which  has  been  eternised  in  Jewish 
memory  by  fire  and  blood;  the  day  which  cost 
the  downtrodden  Israelite  the  lives  of  his  innocent 
babes  and  guiltless  sons  and  daughters ;  the  day  on 
which  the  eternal  wanderer  recalls  with  horror  the 
sufferings  of  his  people  in  the  time  of  the  Crusaders ; 


"Yom  Kippur"  169 

the  day  on  which  the  persecuted  Ghetto  Jew  is 
reminded  that  for  maintaining  an  ideal  and  belief 
he  is  penned  up  in  filthy  quarters,  and  his  life  and 
soul  are  crushed  out  from  him;  the  day  on  which 
the  scapegoat  prays  for  less  cruelty  and  barbarism 
in  the  new  year  from  the  hands  of  the  preachers 
of  Peace  and  Love  and  Charity — the  Day  of 
Atonement !  That  day  gives  the  unhappy  race 
strength  and  forbearance  to  endure  the  blows  and 
derision  from  their  neighbours  who  smite  the  right 
cheek,  then  the  left.  That  day  has  made  the  Jews 
a  race  of  martyrs. 

At  the  close  of  the  service  I  went  to  the  inn. 
Mr.  Takiff  and  many  of  the  congregation  remained 
in  the  synagogue  all  night,  reciting  prayers  and 
chanting  hymns.  When  I  returned  the  next  morn- 
ing they  were  still  praying  and  crying  and  beating 
their  breasts.  The  reeky  smell  of  socks  mingled 
with  the  foul  odour  of  hundreds  of  smoking  tallow 
and  wax  candles.  Mr.  Takiff 's  candle,  which  stood 
in  the  recess  of  the  window  nearest  him,  was  already 
extinguished,  and  a  long  piece  of  burned  wick  fell 
over  one  side,  where  the  wax  had  melted  away. 
He  regarded  this  as  a  bad  omen  and  was  perturbed. 
Mrs.  Takiff  extended  her  head  from  the  women's 
gallery  and  gazed  at  the  extinguished  candle  with 
a  frightened  expression  on  her  face. 

The  day  slowly  advanced.  The  effect  of  the 
fast  was  impressed  upon  every  face.  Only  the 
little  boys  who  had  not  reached  the  fasting  age 


170  The  Fugitive 

looked  happy,  munching  legs  and  gizzards  of 
chicken  and  making  guesses  and  bets  as  to  what 
candles  would  burn  out  the  soonest.  The  boys  who 
had  just  reached  the  fasting  age  of  thirteen  sat 
exhausted  in  the  hay  that  littered  the  floor.  Their 
faces  were  haggard,  without  a  shade  of  the  colour 
of  life  in  them ;  their  eyes  opened  and  closed  wearily ; 
and  the  "  smelling-vials  "  went  up  to  their  noses 
automatically. 

Happily  Neilla  (the  last  prayer  at  sunset)  came. 
It  is  the  holy  of  holies.  It  is  the  last  chance,  so 
to  speak,  to  invoke  the  King  of  Kings  to  "impress 
a  good  seal  upon  the  decrees."  Tired  out  as  the 
worshipers  were  by  this  time,  they  girded  their 
loins  to  make  the  last  appeal.  The  doors  of  the 
ark  were  opened  by  one  who  had  paid  dear  for 
the  honour.  The  congregation  stood  up  with 
evident  fear,  and  remained  on  their  feet  during 
this  service,  which  lasted  over  an  hour.  Like 
warriors  fighting  the  last  battle,  they  prayed  and 
wept  and  struck  their  breasts  with  their  last  bit 
of  energy. 

From  the  women's  gallery  came  a  wailing  and 
sobbing  that  encouraged  the  men  to  augment 
their  own.  The  hour  was  sacred,  fearful,  awe- 
inspiring. 

Finally  Neilla  was  over.  The  last  amen 
resounded  in  the  dusky  synagogue  like  a  deep 
sigh  of  relief.  There  was  hope  in  every  counte- 
nance. A  faint  smile — the  smile  of  victory — bright- 


"Yom  Kipput"  171 

ened  many  faces  at  the  forcible  slap  of  the  sexton's 
hand  upon  the  table. 

"Next  year  in  Jerusalem!"  proclaimed  the 
whole  congregation  in  one  uproarious  voice;  then 
came  seven  times  "God  is  our  Lord"  in  a  tri- 
umphant shout;  and  then  came  the  finale — the 
long-drawn  call  of  the  ram's  horn. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 
A  TRAGEDY  WITHOUT  BLOODSHED 

WE  found  a  carriage  waiting,  and  without 
stopping  to  break  the  fast  in  town  we  started 
for  home.  The  coachman  cracked  his  whip  fiercely 
and  set  the  horses  at  full  speed.  Mrs.  Takiff  was 
anxious  about  her  daughter,  and  asked  the  driver, 
who  had  been  in  the  innkeeper's  house  for  fifteen 
years,  how  he  had  left  Malke.  "All  right,"  he 
muttered;  and  he  snapped  his  whip  viciously  at 
the  horses'  ears  and  cursed  them  for  their  slowness. 
I  wondered  at  this,  for  I  knew  Nikolai  loved  the 
horses  better  than  his  wife.  Even  when  the  horses 
were  galloping  at  breakneck  speed  Nikolai  did 
not  stop  his  curses. 

"You're  in  a  bad  humour  to-night,  Nikolai," 
Mr.  Takiff  reproved  the  coachman;  but  the  latter 
paid  no  attention  to  his  master  and  emptied  another 
volley  of  curses. 

After  an  hour  of  this  rapid  pace  we  drew  up 
before  the  long  house.  No  light  was  seen  through 
the  windows,  and  Malke  was  not  on  the  porch  to 
meet  us.  The  driver  jumped  off  quickly,  opened 
the  gate,  and  drove  into  the  yard.  Not  even  a 

172 


A  Tragedy  Without  Bloodshed  173 

servant  came  to  receive  us.  We  entered  the  large 
dining-room.  Still  not  a  soul  appeared. 

' '  Where  is  Malke  ?  Where  is  everybody  ? ' '  shouted 
Mr.  Takiff. 

Tekla,  the  muzhik  maid-servant,  and  Andrew, 
who  took  care  of  the  cattle,  entered  with  hanging 
heads. 

"Where  is  Malke?  Where  is  my  daughter?" 
Nosen  demanded  in  a  threatening  voice. 

They  did  not  answer,  but  stood  with  eyes  down- 
cast, alternately  wringing  their  hands  and  making 
the  sign  of  the  cross. 

"Muzhik,  swine,  you  dogs'  hides,  robbers,  where's 
my  daughter?"  burst  out  the  desperate  father 
wildly.  "Give  me  my  daughter!"  He  caught 
Andrew  by  the  hair  and  shook  him,  during  which 
jerking  the  muzhik  frantically  crossed  his  breast. 

" Panotchic  Moi  [my  little  master],"  faltered 
the  peasant,  "you  know  Count  Losjinski "' 

"You  horse's  head,"  his  master  interrupted  him, 
stamping  his  feet  madly,  "where  is  my  Malke? 
I  don't  care  about  the  Count,  you  pig's  snout !" 

"Pan  Notka  [Master  Nosen],"  the  servant  began 
again,  "the  Count  was  here  this  morning  and 
stayed  here  several  hours,  and  I  saw  him  walking 
away  with  Malke." 

"Confound  you,  pig's  snout!  Did  you  see  my 
daughter  going  away  with  the  Count?" 

"No,  Pan  Notka,  but " 

The  master  lost  control  of  himself  and  shook  the 


174  The  Fugitive 

muzhik  by  his  ears.  "Where  is  my  daughter? 
Tell  me  quick  or ' 

His  excitement  was  so  intense  and  his  anger  so 
fierce  that  he  could  not  finish  the  sentence.  His  wife 
dropped  upon  a  sofa  and  sobbed.  Little  Yankele 
(Jacob),  frightened  by  the  frenzy  of  his  father  and 
the  grief  of  his  mother,  broke  into  wails.  I  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  stiff  and  cold. 

"I  saw  Pane  Malke  walking  toward  the  forest 
about  half  an  hour  after  the  Count  had  left," 
stammered  the  trembling  Andrew. 

"Harness  the  two  best  horses  in  the  light  vehicle, 
Nikolai,"  shouted  the  master.  "Israel  and  I  will 
look  in  the  woods." 

I  realised  the  folly  of  searching  in  the  woods 
for  Malke,  for  I  divined  the  cause  of  her  disappear- 
ance. But  I  made  no  objection,  and  accompanied 
the  agitated  father  to  the  forest.  The  horses 
galloped  as  fast  as  they  could;  Nikolai,  at  the 
command  of  his  master,  whipped  them  merci- 
lessly. On  the  way  Mr.  Takiff  did  not  utter  a 
word,  only  pressed  his  temples  with  his  hands  and 
groaned. 

When  we  reached  the  path  that  cut  through  the 
forest  Mr.  Takiff  alighted  and  asked  me  to  walk 
with  him  through  the  thick  woods.  We  tramped 
over  stumps  and  fallen  trees  and  through  the  thick 
underbrush.  Everything  was  quiet  except  the 
autumn  wind  that  whistled  painfully  and  the 
sound  of  our  footsteps. 


A  Tragedy  Without  Bloodshed  175 

"Malke!  Malke!"  shouted  the  unhappy  father 
distractedly. 

Nothing  but  a  hollow  echo  came  in  response. 
Once  there  was  a  noise  which  sounded  like  the 
cracking  of  dry  twigs  under  foot.  We  stopped  and 
listened  with  held  breath.  But  it  was  only  the 
hissing  of  the  wind. 

At  the  other  end  of  the  woods  Nikolai  was 
waiting  for  us  with  a  carriage.  "To  Count  Los- 
jinski,"  ordered  the  master  as  we  stepped  into  the 
vehicle. 

In  about  an  hour  we  reached  the  Count's  palace. 
No  light  was  to  be  seen  at  any  of  the  windows.  Mr. 
Takiff  pulled  the  bell  fiercely.  No  one  came  to 
the  door.  He  rang  again  impatiently,  and  again 
and  again,  but  he  only  got  the  same  silent  answer 
that  he  received  when  he  called  for  his  daughter  in 
the  heart  of  the  forest. 

We  remained  standing  on  the  steps  of  the  palace 
while  minute  after  minute  passed,  Mr.  Takiff  with 
his  head  hanging  over  his  chest. 

Presently  we  started  home;  there  was  nothing 
else  for  us  to  do.  On  our  way  we  accosted  every 
peasant  we  met  with  questions,  but  learned  noth- 
ing. At  length  we  came  to  a  small  inn  kept  by  a 
Jew,  and  here  we  stopped  in  the  hope  of  obtaining 
some  clue. 

We  found  a  shrivelled,  black-haired,  black-eyed 
little  man  seated  at  a  table,  with  his  wife  and  three 
little  children  by  his  side,  eating  their  first  meal 


176  The  Fugitive 

after  the  long  fast.  A  few  muzhiks  sat  at  another 
table  in  the  same  room,  smoking  their  stinking 
Makhorka  (a  poor  quality  of  tobacco)  and  washing 
their  throats  with  delicious  vodka. 

"How  do  you  do,  Pan  Notka?"  said  one  of  the 
muzhiks,  with  long,  flaxen  hair,  a  sharp  little  nose, 
and  small,  shiny  eyes  peeping  from  under  a  narrow, 
projecting  forehead.  "You're  highly  promoted, 
Pan  Notka,"  he  went  on  jestingly,  before  any  one 
else  could  speak.  "I  saw  your  Malke  driving 
with  the  Count  in  a  carriage  to-day,"  and  he  winked 
at  his  companions. 

Mr.  Takiff  fell  back  and  stood  quivering  for  a 
minute.  Then  he  partially  controlled  himself,  and 
besought  the  peasant  to  tell  him  all  he  knew  about 
his  daughter.  "  Pray,  Danila,  where  have  you  seen 
my  daughter  with  the  Count  ?  Have  mercy  on  an 
old  father,"  the  old  man  implored,  with  tears  rolling 
down  his  soft,  white  face. 

Sympathy  for  his  grief  could  be  read  in  every 
countenance;  even  Danila  appeared  more  earnest 
at  these  words. 

"Well,  Pan  Notka,  I'll  tell  you  all  I  know,"  said 
the  peasant,  putting  his  pipe  aside.  "You  know, 
my  oat-field  lies  right  by  the  forest,  and  you  know, 
Pan  Notka,  this  year  we  had  a  poor  harvest.  At 
first  there  was  no  rain  at  all,  then  there  was  too 
much  rain.  You  remember  the  hail  that  broke  the 
window-panes  of  your  hothouse?  So  my  oat-field 
in  the  skirts  of  the  Count's  forest  was  very  poor, 


A  Tragedy  Without  Bloodshed  177 

and  I  could  not  gather  my  oats  until  last  week. 
This  morning,  Pan  Notka,  I  went  to  gather  the 
last  few  sheaves  I  had  there,  when,  about  two 
o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  I  noticed  the  Count  Los- 
jinski  with  your  daughter  coming  toward  my  field. 
And  the  Count  was  very  good  and  kind  to-day. 
He  asked  me  about  my  harvest  and  about  the 
vegetables.  Coming  home  I  told  my  wife  there 
must  be  something  wrong  with  the  Count,  to  talk 
to  me  as  if  he  were  one  of  our  set.  First  the  Count 
waited  in  the  forest,  walking  up  and  down  and 
whistling,  then  I  saw  your  daughter  coming.  She 
was  wrapped  in  a  large  black  shawl  and  carried  a 
reticule.  I  wondered  at  first  where  she  was  going 
on  the  greatest  of  your  holidays,  but  I  said  nothing, 
because  the  Count  ran  to  receive  her  and  embraced 
and  kissed  her.  I  wondered  and  wondered,  but  I 
could  not  understand  it.  Then  the  Count  whistled 
very  loud,  and  his  carriage  came  from  the  woods. 
They  got  in  and  drove  off  as  quick  as  the  devil. 
In  fact,  I  couldn't  believe  my  own  eyes,  and  so  I  told 
my  wife,  but,  says  I  to  myself:  'Don't  I  know 
Malke,  Pan  Notka's  daughter  ? '  My  wife  laughed 
right  out  in  my  face,  and  said  the  devil  must  have 
played  a  nice  trick  on  me,  and  I  thought  my  Mari- 
anna  was  right,  and  it  must  have  been  some  ghost 
or  devil,  or  the  evil  spirits  know  what." 

This  story  the  peasant  told  in  the  usual  digressive 
peasant's  style,  and  finished  by  spitting  on  the 
floor  unsparingly  before  returning  to  his  pipe.  The 


178  The  Fugitive 

little  innkeeper  and  his  bewigged  wife  shook  their 
heads  and  moaned:  "Woe  is  to  us  !  woe  is  to  us  !" 
But  Mr.  Takiff  said  nothing ;  he  stood  dumb,  staring 
idiotically.  And  we  immediately  left  the  inn. 

About  an  hour  later  we  arrived  at  home.  We 
found  Mrs.  Takiff  lying  in  bed,  and  an  old  peasant 
woman,  who  was  the  physician  of  the  village, 
attending  her.  Little  Yankele  was  sleeping  in  his 
clothes,  crouched  on  two  chairs  in  the  dining-room. 

Mrs.  Takiff  pointed  to  the  open  letter  that  lay  on 
the  table.  It  ran  thus: 

"My  Beloved  Father  and  Mother:  I  go  with  the 
Count.  I  realise  the  pain  and  shame  I  am  causing 
you.  I  know  you  will  never  forgive  me — it  is  useless 
to  justify  myself  to  you.  The  thought  that  I 
shall  never  see  you  again  makes  me  dizzy.  How 
my  blood  is  boiling !  But  I  could  not  help  myself. 
I  love  Count  Losjinski;  the  thought  of  him  fills 
me  with  life  and  love.  Can  I  resist  when  a  greater 
force,  which  governs  you  and  me  and  every  one  else, 
has  taken  possession  of  me?  Do  you  remember, 
father,  you  used  to  tell  me  that  whatever  one  does 
it  is  the  will  of  God  ?  If  this  is  true,  then  it  is  not  my 
wrong,  but  His,  who  made  me  love  the  Count.  If 
you  cannot  forgive,  forget  not  your  ever-loving 

"MALKE." 

The  aggrieved  father  scanned  the  letter  with  a 
wild  stare  in  his  eyes.  He  remained  speechless  for 
a  moment.  Then,  as  if  awakened  from  a  delirium, 
he  rose  to  his  feet,  got  a  knife,  and  with  a  nodding 


A- Tragedy  Without  Bloodshed  179 

head  and  tears  flowing  over  his  face  came  up  to 
his  wife. 

"Sarah,  our  daughter  Malke  is  no  more !"  he  said 
in  a  hoarse,  tremulous  voice.  "Her  chastity  is 
gone !  Our  child  is  dead  to  us — dead !  Krea 
[rend  your  clothes]." 

And  as  he  said  this  he  made  a  cut  in  his  wife's 
jacket,  then  in  the  lapel  of  his  own  coat,  and  sat 
down  on  the  floor  heavily. 

"Malke  is  dead — dead!"  he  groaned  through  his 
streaming  tears  as  he  swayed  his  body  mourn- 
fully. 

"  Oh,  my  child !  Oh,  Malke !  Malke  !"  wept  Mrs. 
Takiff  bitterly,  wringing  her  hands. 


BOOK  THE  SECOND 
LIGHT 


The  people  that  walk  in  darkness  have  seen  a  great  light." 

— ISAIAH. 


CHAPTER  I 

"LITHUANIAN  JERUSALEM" 

holidays  passed  mournfully  enough.  Noth- 
ing  was  heard  of  Malke.  Her  name  was  not 
to  be  mentioned  in  her  father's  presence,  though  both 
of  the  grief -stricken  parents  continued  to  weep  and 
groan,  and  the  dreary  fall  added  a  touch  of  gloom. 
I  could  not  bear  to  stay  in  this  house  any  longer, 
so  when  the  first  snow  fell  I  thanked  the  broken- 
hearted people  for  their  kindness  and  departed. 
With  a  hundred  rubles  in  my  pocket  I  hoped  to 
be  able  to  make  a  start  in  Vilno. 

Late  on  Friday  afternoon  I  arrived  in  the  great 
city  of  enlightenment.  The  streets  of  "Lithuanian 
Jerusalem,"  as  Vilno  was  justly  termed,  were 
thronged  with  running,  jostling,  pushing  men  and 
women,  whose  every  look  and  gesture  spoke  of 
thrifty  commerce.  With  no  particular  destination 
in  view,  I  wandered  through  the  busy  thoroughfares, 
staring  at  everything  about  me  with  astonishment: 
at  the  three-  and  four-story  white-plastered  build- 
ings which  seemed  to  me  like  so  many  towers  of 
Babel,  at  the  crowded  sidewalks,  at  the  noisy  pave- 
ments, at  the  smoothly  rolling  carriages,  at  the 
rattling  carts,  at  the  rushing  droshkys.  Everything 

183 


1 84  The  Fugitive 

was  so  different  from  what  I  had  been  accustomed 
to  in  the  small,  dirty  towns  that  I  felt  helpless, 
half-frightened. 

I  reached  the  market-place.  Here  more  than 
ever  I  was  aware  that  I  was  in  Vilno  and  on  Friday 
— the  busiest  day  of  all  seven.  I  paused  on  a  street 
corner  and  looked  about  dazedly.  Fishmongers, 
fruit-venders,  small  dry-goods  dealers  called  off 
their  wares  in  stentorian  voices,  asthmatic  voices, 
screechy,  piping  voices,  jarring  voices,  and  in  all 
sorts  of  intonations  and  dialects. 

A  heavy-cloaked,  fat  Jewess,  with  a  large  woollen 
shawl  twisted  around  her  head  and  covering  all 
features  but  her  frozen  nose  and  moving  lips, 
solicited  trade  in  this  wise:  "Blessed  women, 
come,  come;  good  hot,  mellow,  and  relishable  beans; 
buy,  women,  for  the  Sabbath.  They  will  melt  in 
your  mouths  like  granulated  sugar — so  may  the  One 
whose  name  I  am  not  worthy  of  mentioning  help 
me  to  see  my  children  under  the  bridal  canopy — 
a  real  bargain;  a  bargain  as  sure  as  I  live."  "A 
bargain  as  sure  as  I  live,"  piped  her  little  daughter, 
while  her  mother  was  rubbing  her  hands  and  warming 
herself  over  the  "fire-pot." 

Another  woman  stood  in  the  doorway  of  a  dry- 
goods  shop,  her  hands  under  her  apron  and  her 
head  cowled  in  a  heavy  shawl,  quarrelling  with  a 
woman  who  was  leaving  the  store.  "Outcast! 
vixen !  may  your  name  be  effaced  from  the  earth !" 
cursed  the  storekeeper.  "Don't  I  know  that  you 


"Lithuanian  Jerusalem"  185 

go  around  from  store  to  store  only  to  bargain  and 
haggle  without  buying  a  penny's  worth  of  stuff? 
Ha!  ha!  ha!  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  pig,  such 
an  unclean  animal,  who  came  over^here  from  some 
small  town  or  village,  and  simply  goes  around  for 
the  fun  of  bargaining?  Ten  customers — so  may 
God  help  me  and  give  me  good  luck ! — ten  cus- 
tomers— so  may  I  see  my  eldest  daughter  under 
the  bridal  canopy  and  you  in  the  grave ! — ten 
customers — so  may  ten  plagues  set  on  your  hoggish 
black  face ! — ten  customers  passed  my  door  and 
did  not  come  in  because  you  were  bargaining  with 
me,  and  they  surely  would  have  bought  more  goods 
than  you  have  got  in  your  store,  you  pig  of  a  small 
town !  All  the  ten  plagues  of  Egypt  shall  rest  on 
your  hoggish  head ! "  The  shopkeeper  turned  to 
the  passersby:  "Nu!  nu!  Did  you  ever  hear? 
She  don't  want  my  goods,  she  says,  after  I  had 
turned  the  store  upside  down  and  quoted  her  the 
cheapest  prices — almost  at  cost." 

The  would-be  customer,  a  short,  heavy-set  woman 
with  purple  cheeks,  blue  lips,  and  a  reddish  snub- 
nose,  had  been  gathering  wrath,  and  she  now  turned 
it  loose.  "Thief!  Pickpocket!  Your  swindles  are 
known  all  over  the  world, '  from  India  unto  Ethiopia.' 
Ha !  ha !  ha !  She  thinks  she  has  got  hold  of  a  fool 
from  a  small  town,  and  tries  to  sell  her  a  'cat  in  a  bag. ' 
Before  I  ever  knew  about  your  threadbare  stolen 
handkerchiefs  and  rotten  silk  I  had  already  dealt 
in  ten  thousand  rubles'  worth  of  satin  and  costly 


1 86  The  Fugitive 

silks  and  velvets.  All  the  storekeepers  of  our  town 
warned  me  not  to  buy  any  goods  from  you — so 
may  I  live  to  see  my  husband  and  children  in  the 
best  of  health  when  I  arrive  home !  All  your 
curses  will  fall  in  the  deep  sea  where  the  Egyptians 
were  drowned,  and  where  I  hope  to  see  you 
swallowed.  Must  I  buy  your  rotten  goods?  Get 
yourself  a  bigger  fool  than  me.  No,  no,  little 
sister" — this  in  a  tone  of  mockery — "you  can't  sell 
me  your  stinking  goods.  I  was  not  born  yesterday. ' ' 

"  Fish — trembling,  live  fish,  just  from  the  bait,  as 
good  as  the  leviathan,"  struck  in  a  fishmonger, 
winking  significantly  at  the  two  quarrelling  women. 
"The  Czar  himself  may  eat  them.  Try  them,  buy 
them,  good  women.  Eight  copecks  a  pound — eight 
copecks.  Fresh  and  trembling,  good  women." 

Bewildered  by  the  tumult  and  confusion,  I 
strolled  from  stall  to  stall,  staring  about  me  in 
countryman  fashion.  I  paid  dear  for  my  curiosity. 
Every  time  I  raised  my  eyes  to  the  high  buildings 
some  urchin  was  certain  to  aim  a  painful  blow 
under  my  chin.  Once  the  blow  was  so  powerful 
that  when  I  recovered  from  my  surprise  I  found  my 
image  deeply  imprinted  in  a  heap  of  snow. 

At  length  the  yellowish  street  lights  began  to 
flicker.  I  had  never  before  seen  such  illuminations, 
and  they  filled  my  mind  with  admiration  for  the 
magnificence  of  the  Lithuanian  metropolis. 

While  engrossed  in  sight-seeing,  I  was  utterly 
unconscious  of  the  biting  frost  and  the  dust -like 


"Lithuanian  Jerusalem"  187 

sprinkling  of  snow  in  the  air;  but  now  that  my 
curiosity  was  half-satisfied  and  night  had  fallen  I 
began  to  feel  the  cold  and  think  of  a  place  to  spend 
the  night.  I  had  money  in  my  pocket  and  might 
easily  have  found  lodging,  but  I  was  so  at  a  loss  in 
this  big  city  that  I  actually  feared  to  try.  At  one 
tavern  after  another  I  stopped,  but  could  not 
summon  courage  enough  to  open  the  door.  I  might 
have  walked  the  streets  all  night  had  I  not  soon 
observed  that  on  every  corner  policemen  were  eying 
me,  made  suspicious  by  my  having  so  often  passed 
and  repassed  them.  As  my  fear  of  them  was  greater 
than  my  fear  of  innkeepers,  I  determined  to  seek 
refuge  in  the  first  lodging-house  I  should  come 
across. 

I  pushed  open  the  door  of  an  ale-house  and, 
half-embarrassed,  remained  standing  like  a  beggar 
on  the  very  threshold.  Two  men  seated  at  a  little 
table  were  talking  in  low  tones,  and  at  first  seemed 
not  to  observe  my  presence.  A  minute  later, 
however,  one  of  the  men  looked  up  at  me  angrily 
and  said  to  his  companion:  "The  beggars  are 
eating  the  flesh  off  our  bones.  They  give  us  no  rest 
even  on  Friday  night."  Then  he  asked  sarcasti- 
cally of  me:  "How  many  suppers  have  you  had 
to-night?" 

I  was  humiliated.  I  fingered  the  money  in  my 
pocket,  with  a  strong  desire  to  pull  out  the  roll  of 
bills  and  show  him  that  I  had  more  than  enough  to 
pay  for  a  meal. 


1 88  The  Fugitive 

"He's  not  that  kind  of  a  bird,"  the  other  re- 
marked, rising  from  his  seat. 

"What  do  you  wish?"  demanded  the  first  man, 
who  was  the  proprietor. 

In  a  faltering  voice  I  told  him  that  I  was  a 
stranger  seeking  lodging  for  the  night,  for  which  I 
was  ready  to  pay  in  advance.  My  explanation 
seemed  to  appease  the  angry  proprietor,  and  coming 
near  me  he  asked:  "What  is  your  business,  young 
man?" 

I  could  not  understand  what  right  he  had  to  put 
this  question  to  me,  but  as  I  lacked  courage  to 
refuse  an  answer  I  told  him  I  had  come  to  attend 
the  gymnasium. 

"Talmudic  sucklings  are  flocking  in  daily,  so 
that  the  Yeshivas  will  soon  have  to  be  closed 
for  want  of  students,"  he  said  to  his  companion. 
Then  turning  to  me  he  said  in  a  tone  of 
dismissal:  "This  is  no  lodging-house,  young 
man." 

I  was  about  to  leave,  when  his  companion,  who 
had  been  scrutinising  me  silently,  inquired:  "Have 
you  any  friends  here?" 

"I  don't  know  a  soul  in  the  city,"  I  answered. 

He  continued  to  look  sharply  at  me,  and  after  a 
moment's  hesitation  asked:  "Do  you  write  a  neat 
hand — I  mean  Russian?" 

"I  think  I  do." 

"If  you  are  willing  to  do  some  copying — for  an 
hour  or  two  a  day — I  will  give  you  lodging  by  way 


"Lithuanian  Jerusalem"  189 

of  compensation  and  give  you  an  opportunity  to 
earn  a  few  rubles  besides." 

This  was  indeed  a  godsend.  I  accepted  the  offer 
straightway. 

A  few  minutes  later  we  were  walking  through  the 
streets,  while  my  companion  was  questioning  me 
about  my  past.  He  was  tall  and  solidly  built, 
with  jet-black  curly  hair,  and  with,  what  I  thought, 
michievous-looking  eyes.  At  first  I  was  apprehen- 
sive of  danger ;  but  there  were  candour  and  sympathy 
in  his  words,  and  his  offer  was  too  inviting  for  one 
in  my  circumstances  to  reject,  so  I  soon  dismissed 
all  suspicion  from  my  mind. 

We  presently  entered  a  large,  gloomy  courtyard, 

After  we  had  climbed  two  narrow  stairways  my 
new  friend  rapped  on  a  door.  We  were  admitted  by 
a  young  woman  into  a  dimly  lighted  apartment. 
He  introduced  the  woman  as  "the  lady  who  keeps 
house  for  me,"  and  he  showed  me  into  a  neat- 
looking  room  which  contained,  besides  a  bed  and  a 
little  table,  a  small  printing-press. 

"Israel — don't  mind  my  calling  you  by  your 
first  name;  I  also  wish  you  to  call  me  Adolph,  not 
Mr.  Dolgoff,"  he  laughed  merrily,  and  slapped  me 
on  the  shoulder  by  way  of  encouraging  good 
fellowship — "Israel,  make  yourself  at  home  here. 
I  hope  you  will  not  find  me  a  bad  fellow.  But  I 
must  add  one  stipulation — whatever  you  see  or 
hear  keep  to  yourself;  ask  no  questions.  When 
you  have  had  as  much  experience  as  I  you  will  find 


The  Fugitive 

this  advice  very  helpful  to  you.     Children  must  be 
taught  to  talk,  grown  people  to  keep  silent." 

After  I  had  supped  on  very  palatable  food  I 
went  to  bed.  But  although  I  was  worn  out,  hours 
passed  before  I  fell  asleep.  The  incident  of  my 
meeting  Dolgoff  and  the  scenes  I  had  witnessed 
during  the  day  kept  me  awake.  My  new  friend 
looked  mysterious;  everything  about  him  was 
suggestive  of  a  secret;  and  yet  his  cordial  manners 
won  my  confidence.  One  hour  in  his  company  had 
made  me  feel  as  if  we  had  been  lifelong  friends. 
But  what  did  it  matter  as  long  as  I  was  in  Vilno — 
in  Lithuanian  Jerusalem — in  the  great  city  of  light 
and  culture?  Finally  magic  hope  sung  a  sweet 
lullaby  and  lulled  me  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  II 
MY  SECOND  BIRTH 

AFTER  a  long  rest  I  awoke  the  next  morning  with 
a  happy  word  on  my  lips — Vilno.  I  lay  in  bed 
listening  to  the  rumbling  of  wheels  on  the  loud 
cobble-stones  as  if  it  were  sweet  music,  and  later, 
glancing  through  my  window  at  the  tier  upon  tier  of 
high  buildings  and  domes  and  spires,  I  pictured 
myself  as  Napoleon  beholding  the  burnished  roofs 
and  magnificent  structures  of  Moscow  before  its 
doom. 

My  joy  was  so  overwhelming  for  many  days  to 
come  that  all  past  recollections  escaped  my  memory ; 
even  the  fresh  remembrance  of  Malke  was  merely 
like  the  sour  taste  that  remains  after  eating  sweets. 
I  thought  of  nothing  but  the  future.  Nor  was  I 
troubled  by  the  suspicion  that  Dolgoff  had  at 
first  aroused  in  my  mind.  I  did  my  clerical  work 
as  he  bade  me,  asking  no  questions.  Not  infre- 
quently I  wondered  what  he  did  with  so  many 
passports,  which  I  copied,  and  what  he  did  with 
that  printing-press,  which  I  often  heard  him  work 
behind  closed  doors,  but  I  would  instantly  recall 
his  stipulation  and  remain  dumb.  Did  I  have  any 
cause  to  disregard  his  orders  ?  Did  he  not  treat  me 

191 


192  The  Fugitive 

generously  ?  Did  he  not  furnish  me  with  books  that 
I  might  pursue  my  studies  ?  Did  he  not  help  me  in 
every  possible  way?  With  such  questions  I  would 
quiet  any  misgivings  that  arose  in  my  mind.  And 
what  a  companion !  His  rich,  elastic  barytone, 
which  rang  with  tragic  sweetness  and  pathos  on 
many  a  frosty  winter  night,  still  chimes  in  my 
ears  like  a  weird  echo  whenever  my  mind  recurs  to 
that  period  of  my  eventful  life. 

Two  months  passed  happily  in  routine  work 
and  study.  One  night  about  Christmas  time, 
while  I  sat  reading,  I  heard  Dolgoff  and  another 
man  talking  in  the  adjoining  room.  That  there 
was  a  man  in  his  room  was  itself  surprising,  as 
Dolgoff  had  few  visitors,  but  my  attention  was 
attracted  not  so  much  by  the  visitor  as  by  some- 
thing suggestive  in  the  voice  of  the  guest. 

"S-h!  I  hear  somebody  stirring  in  the  next 
room,"  I  heard  the  visitor  say. 

"This  is  the  fellow  I  told  you  about — silent  as  a 
fish." 

A  short  pause. 

"How  soon  must  you  have  the  passports  and  the 
circulars?" 

There  was  a  sound  like  that  of  unfolding  a  large 
sheet  of  paper.  "To-morrow  morning,  if  possible," 
the  stranger  answered.  "There  is  danger  if  they 
don't  get  the  passports  in  three  days." 

"I  am  afraid  to  work  at  night.  The  press 
makes  too  much  noise,  and  my  housekeeper  tells 


My  Second  Birth  193 

me  that  the  neighbours,  are  getting  suspicious 
of  us." 

"  How  about  getting  the  fellow  to  work  to-morrow 
all  day?" 

Another  pause. 

"  I  am  afraid  to  trust  him.  He  appeared  dull  at 
first,  but  I  find  him  quite  shrewd." 

"Suppose  you  call  him  out  so  I  can  size  him  up." 

Dolgoff  called:  "Israel!" 

I  pretended  not  to  hear. 

He  called  a  second  time. 

I  stepped  into  the  next  room.  It  was  dim,  and 
I  could  not  see  Dolgoff 's  companion  very  distinctly, 
but  I  noticed  that  he  wore  a  gymnasium  uniform. 

"  Is  that  you?"  the  stranger  exclaimed. 

I  shrank  back  a  step  and  said  laughingly:  "The 
voice  is  Jacob's  voice  and  the  hands  are  the  hands 
of  Esau." 

"Don't  you  know  me?"  he  asked,  again  coming 
closer  to  me. 

Ephraim  !  But  what  a  change  !  A  heavy  crop 
of  dark,  curly  hair  crowned  his  well-formed  head, 
a  brown  mustache  shaded  his  upper  lip,  and  his 
keen  eyes  sparkled  through  a  pair  of  glasses.  He 
was  more  erect,  more  graceful  than  ever,  and  in 
the  smart  gymnasium  uniform  he  looked  quite 
distinguished. 

Then  we  forgot  everything  else  and  talked  of  days 
gone  by  and  of  what  had  happened  to  us  since  our 
separation. 


The  Fugitive 

"I  am  in  the  seventh,"  he  answered  to  my 
question  as  to  his  class. 

"And  I  am  in  minus  one,"  I  said  jocosely,  though 
a  trifle  jealously. 

"You  will  catch  up  with  the  rest  of  us,"  Ephraim 
assured  me  encouragingly.  "Once  rid  of  the 
fanatics,  the  rest  is  easy  sailing.  '  In  der  Beschrank- 
ung  zeigt  sick  erst  der  Meister,'"  he  quoted  Goethe.' 
"The  danger  is  now  over:  one  daring  step  brings 
the  advance  of  two." 

Although  I  rejoiced  at  meeting  my  old  friend,  yet 
I  dreaded  his  association.  I  realised  that  Ephraim's 
motives  and  ideas  had  always  been  worthy,  but  at 
the  same  time  I  feared  he  was  instinctively  creating 
trouble  for  himself  and  his  companions.  I  did  not 
clearly  understand  in  what  complication  he  was 
now  involved,  but  the  passports  of  his  and  Dolgoff's 
fabrication,  as  well  as  the  circulars  printed  behind 
closed  doors,  were  doubtless  not  serving  a  legitimate 
purpose.  However,  my  situation  was  such  as  did 
not  warrant  my  severing  connections  with  either 
him  or  Dolgoff.  And,  besides,  in  spite  of  Ephraim's 
revolutionary  ideas,  which  were  not  in  harmony 
with  my  nature,  I  loved  him  for  his  sincerity. 
I  have  always  preferred  erring  sincerity  to  truth 
advocated  by  a  hypocrite. 

The  following  day  he  took  me  to  his  lodging, 
where  we  discussed  my  future.  There  would  be  no 
trouble  in  my  being  admitted  to  the  sixth,  he  as- 
sured me,  if  I  should  study  all  winter  and  the  coming 


My  Second  Birth  195 

summer;  but  I  had  no  passport,  without  which,  he 
said,  I  could  not  even  present  myself  for  examina- 
tion. After  a  few  minutes'  thought  he  asked: 
"Would  you  mind  changing  your  name?" 

I  did  not  divine  his  meaning  at  first  and  looked 
at  him  somewhat  dubiously. 

"Why,  don't  you  understand?"  He  lowered  his 
voice.  "  I  can  get  you  a  passport  under  a  different 
name,  provided  you  would  assume  that  name. 
Every  three  years  you  may  renew  the  passport  and 
live  undisturbed  all  your  life." 

I  felt  .that  it  would  not  be  easy  to  part  with  my 
name ;  it  seemed  to  me  like  changing  my  nose  without 
remodelling  my  other  features.  But  after  he  had  laid 
the  proposition  before  me  and  explained  the  impossi- 
bility of  my  accomplishing  anything  without  such 
a  step,  I  submitted  to  this  change. 

So  that  very  afternoon,  in  the  presence  of  Dolgoff, 
Ephraim  presented  me  with  a  document  that  bore 
the  Russian  eagle  and  smilingly  said:  "I'll  be  your 
godfather  and  christen  you  Ivan  Petrowitch  Russa- 
koff,  a  native  of  Pskoff.  Remember,  you  are  a 
native  of  Pskoff,"  he  repeated  warningly.  "And 
now  you  are  safe." 

That  night  I  lay  awake  for  hours.  Hitherto, 
though  I  had  worked  with  enthusiasm,  I  had  been 
in  much  the  situation  of  one  who  is  trying  to  find 
his  way  alone  through  a  wilderness.  Ephraim  had 
pointed  the  direct  path  to  me ;  his  advice  helped  me 
to  reduce  my  desultory  plan  of  study  to  order.  My 


196  The  Fugitive 

hopes  grew  stronger  as  I  tossed  about  on  my  bed. 
I  began  to  look  into  the  future.  I  saw  myself  in 
gymnasium  uniform;  I  saw  myself  studying  ardu- 
ously to  win  prizes;  I  saw  myself  in  the  midst  of  a 
graduating  class  and  heard  distinctly,  "Gold  medal 
for  Ivan  Petrowitch  Russakoff" — and  then,  ghost- 
like, a  picture  began  to  take  hazy  shape.  Gradually 
the  figure  assumed  more  definite  outlines.  My  heart 
began  to  throb  faster  and  the  blood  in  my  veins 
run  more  swiftly  as  the  picture  became  clear  before 
my  eyes.  I  held  my  breath.  A  blooming  maiden, 
with  rich  brown  hair  hanging  down  her  back,  stood 
by  my  side,  smiling.  I  thought  I  heard  her  murmur 
very  softly:  "You  foolish  Israel!  Why,  then  I'll 
marry  you." 


CHAPTER  III 
A  ROSE  WITH  A  THORN 

DURING  the  winter  and  the  following  summer  my 
studies  were  a  passion  with  me.  My  eagerness  for 
study  and  my  inexhaustible  craving  for  books  kept 
me  so  spellbound  that  the  nights  for  sleep  appeared 
to  me  like  black  spokes  in  a  fast-whirling  wheel. 
I  was  instinctively  an  idler,  and  day-dreams  were 
as  natural  to  me  as  breathing.  I  forced  myself  to 
read  and  study  assiduously  all  day  and  night.  My 
friends  urged  me  to  study  less  and  give  more  time 
to  recreation.  But  how  could  I?  I  realised  there 
was  so  much  to  learn,  so  much  to  observe,  so  much 
to  think  about,  and  that  I  was  so  ignorant  and  life 
was  so  short.  And  when  I  did  permit  myself  a 
little  respite  in  dusky  twilight;  when  I  figured  it 
was  cheaper  to  rest  than  to  burn  oil  or  candles, 
which  I  could  ill  afford,  my  mind  would  immedi- 
ately turn  to  literature.  I  would  revel  in  memories 
of  the  works  of  Shakespeare  and  Milton  and  Dante 
and  Goethe  and  Schiller  and  Lessing  and  Heine 
and  Rousseau  and  Moliere  and  Cervantes.  I  was 
inspired  by  their  grandeur — and  at  the  same  time 
I  was  humbled.  To  be  called  a  student  without 
possessing  a  thorough  knowledge  of  literature, 

197 


igS  The  Fugitive 

philosophy,  and  all  the  sciences  seemed  to  me  tin- 
pardonable  pedantry.  Such  thoughts,  immediately 
followed  by  a  realisation  of  my  own  insignificance 
and  ignorance,  often  drove  me  to  despair;  and  I 
would  quickly  make  a  light  (not  minding  the  cost, 
which  frequently  deprived  me  of  a  few  meals  at 
the  end  of  the  month)  and  proceed  with  my  studies 
more  arduously  than  ever.  To  say  that  I  devoured 
all  the  books  I  could  get  hold  of  is  scarcely  a  figure 
of  speech.  Finding  myself  in  a  library  before 
many  tiers  of  books,  my  brain  would  become  dizzy 
from  a  nervous  desire  to  read  all  the  books  at  once. 

In  spite  of  Dolgoff's  congeniality  and  kindness, 
I  soon  determined  that  his  house  was  no  place  for 
me.  I  dreaded  people  with  secrets.  So  as  soon  as 
I  found  employment  by  which  I  could  earn  enough 
for  bread,  butter,  and  tea,  I  moved  to  a  small  attic, 
from  which  I  looked  down  upon  a  wide  expanse  of 
roofs.  Small  as  my  room  was,  I  enjoyed  it  more 
than  if  it  had  been  a  sumptuously  furnished  palace. 
I  loved  the  noiseless  hum  of  silence  at  night,  and 
there  in  my  forsaken  nook,  with  but  a  cot,  a  chair, 
and  a  table,  I  found  these  comforts  in  all  their 
lavishness. 

Of  Ephraim  I  saw  little,  and  at  Dolgoff's  apart- 
ment I  called  rarely.  The  former  was  too  much 
engrossed  in  his  ideas  and  propaganda,  and  the 
latter  was  busy  fabricating  passports  and  printing 
circulars,  which  he  took  pains  to  keep  away  from 
me.  Besides,  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  the 


A  Rose  With  a  Thorn  199 

secret  bond  between  the  two  was  such  as  would 
not  admit  of  investigation.  From  remarks  dropped 
now  and  then  I  learned  that  they  belonged  to  a 
revolutionary  society,  which  I  had  no  desire  to 
join. 

At  the  end  of  the  summer  I  was  admitted  to  the 
sixth  grade  of  gymnasium,  as  Ephraim  had  pre- 
dicted. My  answers  to  the  examination  questions 
drew  attention  to  me.  I  overheard  one  of  the 
examiners  remark  to  another:  "A  bright  Jewish 
lad."  And  the  record  I  made  at  examination  I 
kept  up  in  the  class-rooms.  I  was  constantly  being 
commended  by  my  instructors. 

But  there  is  no  sunshine  without  shadow,  no 
rose  without  a  thorn.  A  very  sensitive  person 
can  never  be  happy;  his  feelings  are  so  tender  that 
the  least  unkindness  puts  him  in  misery.  Happiness 
is  the  lot  only  of  those  whose  nerves  are  dull,  whose 
brains  are  heavy,  whose  eyes  look  and  do  not  see. 
Unfortunately,  I  was  very  sensitive — quick  to  see, 
quick  to  comprehend,  quick  to  feel. 

And  it  was  not  long  before  I  felt  the  prick  of  the 
thorn.  My  assiduous  study  and  native  aptness 
for  literature  brought  me  to  the  head  of  the  class 
in  that  course.  The  jealousy  of  the  gentile  boys 
was  provoked,  and  I  suffered.  During  recess,  when 
the  boys  would  play  and  fight,  I  could  not  pass 
through  the  school-yard  without  insult.  One  would 
gather  the  skirt  of  his  coat  in  his  hand  in  the  shape 
of  a  pig's  ear  and  imitate  that  unclean  animal  as 


200  The  Fugitive 

I  passed ;  another  would  mimic  my  walk ;  some  one 
else  would  bespatter  me  with  ink  blown  through  a 
straw.  Nor  were  these  the  worst  pranks  they  played 
upon  me.  Need  I  say  that  I  suffered?  The  word 
suffer  is  not  adequate  to  express  what  I  felt.  It 
was  not  their  jibes  and  mockery  alone  that  hurt  me. 
I  was  hurt  as  much  by  their  injustice  to  my  race. 
It  was  not  me  individually  that  they  insulted,  but 
the  great  suffering  people  of  Israel. 

Many  a  night,  when  my  tormentors  were  peace- 
fully asleep,  I  lay  in  my  dark  little  chamber  and 
longed  for  the  Ghetto  and  the  Talmud.  Several 
times  I  determined  to  give  up  all  my  hopes  of  be- 
coming a  distinguished  man  and  go  back  to  the 
Beth-Hamedresh  and  the  musty  folios  of  the 
Talmud.  "Is  not  the  confined  Ghetto,  with  all  its 
dirt  and  bigotry,  the  safest  corner  for  the  sensitive 
Jew?"  I  would  ask  myself.  "There  at  least, 
though  I  suffered  physically,  I  was  not  a  target  for 
sneering  and  jeering  and  unbearable  offenses.  There 
at  least  my  heart  and  sentiments  were  not  wounded. 
The  swineherds  who  had  beaten  me  were  ignorant 
and  were  therefore  not  quite  responsible  for  their 
inhuman  act.  But  now,  among  educated  people 
who  are  taught  to  reason  and  who  boast  of  civilisa- 
tion, why  should  I  feel  like  a  strayed  lamb  among 
a  pack  of  wolves?  What  fault  do  they  find  with 
me  that  justifies  their  insults?  What  makes  me 
an  object  of  scorn?  I  do  not  ask  of  them  to  love 
me.  Toleration  is  all  I  pray  for." 


A  Rose  With  a  Thorn  201 

But  the  next  morning  all  my  yearning  for  knowl- 
edge would  come  back  to  me,  and  I  would  go  on 
with  my  studies  with  unabated  zeal.  Though  it 
has  never  been  in  my  nature  to  humble  myself 
before  any  one,  I  learned  after  a  while,  in  spite  of 
my  pride,  to  walk  humbly  before  those  brutal 
boys.  I  even  used  to  correct  some  of  the  students' 
compositions  before  they  had  been  handed  to  the 
teacher.  And  what  recompense  did  I  get  for  it? 
Smiling  insults  and  tacit  offenses. 

After  all,  I  derived  a  certain  benefit  from  all  these 
injuries.  The  misery  I  suffered  through  the  preju- 
dice of  my  tormentors  strengthened  my  will;  the 
sneers  I  received  because  I  was  of  the  fugitive  race 
lent  courage  to  my  timorous  nature.  Suffering 
is  the  best  cultivator  of  character.  The  wrongs 
others  had  done  to  me  made  me  realise  the  wrong 
I  was  doing  to  others.  Persecution  taught  me 
tolerance,  sympathy,  truthfulness,  justice. 

After  a  time  I  began  to  take  thought  as  to  what 
profession  I  should  enter.  I  finally  settled  upon 
medicine,  though  I  had  no  inclination  for  it.  In 
Russia  a  Jew  may  not  do  what  he  wishes,  but  what  he 
is  permitted  to  do.  I  chose  medicine  because  it 
was  the  most  independent  profession  open  to  me. 

During  all  the  period  of  study  and  torture  the 
image  of  Katia  was  constantly  arising  in  my  mind. 
Her  sovereignty  over  me,  which  had  lapsed  during 
Malke's  brief  sway,  was  now  more  absolute,  more 
absorbing;  it  thrilled  me  and  added  an  ineffable 


202  The  Fugitive 

sweetness  to  my  existence.  I  could  not  clearly 
see  where  or  how  I  could  ever  meet  her  again,  but 
I  was  young,  and  youth  is  ever  hopeful.  When 
my  teacher  pronounced  my  verses  "decidedly 
promising"  I  regarded  this  success  as  a  partial 
fulfilment  of  Katia's  prediction  that  I  would 
become  a  famous  poet.  Then  would  come  the 
consuming  ambition  to  realise  her  expectations, 
and  I  would  study  and  write  more  zealously  than 
ever  that  I  might  become  as  great  as  Nekrassoff 
or  Lermontoff  or  Pushkin. 

So  several  years  passed — years  of  torment,  of 
study,  of  versifying,  of  dreaming  of  Katia.  On 
my  graduation  day  I  heard,  as  I  once  had  dreamed : 
"A  gold  medal  for  Ivan  Petrowitch  Russakoff." 

Ephraim  had  graduated  the  year  before  and 
had  gone  to  Kieff  to  study  in  the  university;  and 
thither  I  also  decided  to  go. 


CHAPTER  IV 
"RUSSIAN  JERUSALEM" 

ONE  chilly  autumn  morning  I  arrived  in  Kieff — 
the  "City  of  Churches."  Its  numberless  glittering 
spires,  gilt  cupolas,  sparkling  crosses,  superb  belfries, 
overtowering  domes,  and  the  splendour  and  holi- 
ness of  its  atmosphere  filled  me  with  overwhelming 
admiration.  The  sight  of  the  picturesque  Jerusa- 
lem of  Russia,  with  its  numberless  monasteries, 
cathedrals,  and  churches,  aroused  in  me  new  feelings, 
new  thoughts,  new  hopes,  new  aspirations.  My 
innate  love  for  beauty  in  any  form  stirred  my 
enthusiasm  to  wonderment,  admiration,  worship. 

I  found  Ephraim  easily  enough,  and  through 
him  I  found  Dolgoff.  The  former  was  pursuing 
his  studies  and  no  less  ardently  his  propaganda, 
and  the  latter,  by  some  means  or  other,  managed, 
without  doing  a  stroke  of  work,  to  wear  good 
clothes  and  eat  the  choicest  of  food. 

Dolgoff  started  on  seeing  me  the  first  time. 
"By  thunder!"  he  cried,  "with  that  sprout- 
ing mustache  on  your  face  and  appealing  look 
you're  enough  like  an  old  friend  of  mine  to  be  his 
brother  [this  mustache  was  a  product  of  my  last 
year  in  Vilnoj.  And  by  the  bye,  one  of  his  names 

203 


204  The  Fugitive 

— he  had  a  dozen  [this  with  a  rolling  laugh] — was 
the  same  as  yours,  Abramo witch." 

I  thought  of  Joseph — in  my  turn  I  was  startled. 
My  heart  beat  wildly.  This  (if  this  friend  of 
DolgofFs  should  prove  my  brother)  was  the  first 
I  had  heard  of  Joseph  since  I  was  a  child;  and,  in 
fact,  I  had  scarcely  ever  thought  of  him. 

"What  was  the  brother  of  mine  like?"  I  asked, 
controlling  myself  and  attempting  to  laugh. 

"Don't  call  him  your  brother,  even  in  jest," 
returned  Dolgoff.  "You  look  a  little  alike — only 
in  physical  appearance.  He  is  one  of  the  biggest 
rogues  the  devil  ever  got  into." 

"He  sounds  interesting.  You  might  at  least  tell 
me  a  little  about  him,"  I  said,  with  a  fast-beating 
heart,  again  straining  a  light  manner. 

"He  certainly  was  a  lost  soul,"  said  Dolgoff 
carelessly.  "I  heard  it  whispered  that  he  killed 
his  own  father.  Whether  this  was  true  I  can't 
say.  But  I  know  he  collected  a  lot  of  blackmail 
from  an  important  personage  who  was  mixed  up 
in  a  murder,  by  threatening  exposure.  I  got  to 
know  him  pretty  well,  for  we  worked  together  for 
a  while — passports,  you  know.  When  I  first  knew 
him  he  was  living  with  a  woman,  a  gentile,  who 
said  she  was  his  wife.  But  they  weren't  married. 
He  had  talked  free-love  hocus-pocus  to  her  till  he 
had  convinced  her  marriage  wasn't  necessary. 
He  soon  deserted  her  and  ran  off  with  a  money- 
lender's daughter  and  all  of  his  money  he  could 


** Russian  Jerusalem"  205 

get  hold  off.  I  haven't  heard  of  him  since,  but 
he's  undoubtedly  at  the  same  game.  If  I  were  you, 
Israel,"  he  ended  humorously,  with  a  soft,  rolling 
laugh,  "I'd  shave  off  my  mustache  and  look  like 
some  one  else." 

I  did  not  dare  question  him  any  further  about 
Joseph,  for  fear  my  curiosity,  together  with  the 
resemblance  he  had  noted,  might  lead  him  to  suspect 
the  relationship  between  his  old  friend  and  me. 
Needless  to  say,  I  was  not  proud  of  Joseph.  So  I 
turned  the  conversation  upon  Ephraim. 

"Oh,  Razovski  is  now  stirring  Kieff  with  'liberty 
for  the  Jews'  and  'assimilation, ' "  he  said  in  answer 
to  my  question  as  to  what  was  Ephraim's  present 
hobby.  "He  is  always  fortunate  in  finding  co- 
operators.  A  certain  Judge  Bialnick — a  gentile — 
is  working  indefatigably  for  the  cause." 

"Judge  Bialnick!"  I  uttered  breathlessly. 

"Why,  did  you  ever  hear  of  him?  He  comes 
from  Lithuania  and  has  spent  his  life  among  Jews." 

I  did  not  answer  his  question;  instead,  I  again 
changed  the  subject.  "  And  what  about  Nihilism  ? " 

"It  is  not  dead  yet, "  he  responded  in  a  whisper. 
"  That's  how  Razovski  came  to  meet  Judge  Bialnick. 
The  Judge  is  at  the  head  of  our  secret  society  here. 
Matters  will  become  lively  pretty  soon."  He 
suddenly  checked  himself,  as  if  he  realised  he  had 
already  talked  too  much. 

The  information  that  Bialnick  was  in  Kieff  took 
me  completely  by  surprise.  I  was  so  dazed  that 


206  The  Fugitive 

after  leaving  Dolgoff  I  almost  lost  my  way.  I 
recalled  that  Bialnick  had  talked  of  being  trans- 
ferred to  Kieff,  so  this  must  be  the  same  Bial- 
nick that  I  had  known.  And  Katia  must  be  in 
Kieff,  too.  A  thrilling  hope  took  hold  of  me. 
I  could  not  see  my  way  clear  to  a  renewal  of 
friendship  with  her,  but  I  trusted  to  fate  and  my 
efforts. 

I  took  up  my  new  course  of  study  with  fresh 
zeal.  Because  Katia  was  so  near,  because  of  the 
new  hope  that  was  burning  within  me,  the  dry 
pages  of  anatomy  and  materia  medica  became  as  at- 
tractive to  me  as  volumes  of  poetry.  I  was  happy  all 
the  time  because  I  was  breathing  the  same  air  with 
Katia;  and  every  evening  I  was  doubly  happy, 
because  then  I  walked  past  her  residence,  which, 
I  soon  learned,  was  in  the  Pecherskoi  quarter,  the 
most  fashionable  part  of  the  city. 

But  I  suffered  from  material  want.  Living 
expenses  here  were  much  higher  than  at  Vilno,  and 
my  earnings  were  less.  I  eked  out  my  livelihood 
by  doing  some  odd  literary  jobs  for  a  well-known 
periodical,  but  the  remuneration  was  so  meager 
that  I  was  often  compelled  to  live  on  one  meal  a 
day.  However,  I  was  not  discouraged.  On  the 
contrary,  my  ambition  was  stimulated,  and  the 
time  of  the  missing  meal  was  spent  in  writing 
verses.  My  muse  was  very  active  in  those  days. 
With  ink  and  paper  before  me,  and  a  pen  in  my 
hand,  I  felt  as  if  I  were  riding  on  a  fast-sailing 


"Russian  Jerusalem"  207 

cloud,  with  the  earth  below  like  a  mere  child's 
ball. 

Yet  I  could  not  substitute  verses  for  all  my 
meals.  So  I  advertised  in  a  local  newspaper,  and 
the  second  insertion  procured  me  a  position  as 
tutor  in  a  wealthy  family.  The  payment  I  agreed 
upon  was  sufficient  to  carry  me  through  college. 
The  first  lessons  I  gave  were  satisfactory,  and  now 
all  seemed  easy  sailing.  But  I  was  soon  again 
reminded  that  a  rose  is  scarcely  ever  without  a 
thorn.  One  afternoon,  as  I  presented  myself  at 
the  appointed  time,  I  found  the  father  instead  of 
his  two  sons. 

He  bowed  stifBy  and  in  a  courteous  tone  said: 
"Well — a — you  will  excuse  me — a — your  name — a 
— :deceived  me."  And  he  smiled,  as  if  he  wished 
me  to  understand  the  rest. 

I  looked  dubiously  at  him. 

41  Don't  you  see— Mr.  Russakoff  ?  "  he  added.  "  I 
don't  believe  you  are  the  kind  of  tutor  my  boys 
need." 

"Could  you  kindly  specify  my  deficiencies,  so 
that  I  may  benefit  by  your  opinion?"  I  asked 
smilingly,  though  I  was  filled  with  sudden  despair. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir."  He  smiled  graciously. 
"The  fault — a — is  not  with  you,  but — a — with — 
a — the  Jew " 

My  feelings  at  that  instant  were  beyond  all 
description.  I  had  suffered  many  injuries  of  a 
similar  kind  before,  but  never  had  I  felt  so  hurt  as 


208  The  Fugitive 

at  this  time.  I  went  to  my  room  and  threw  myself 
upon  my  bed,  and,  man  though  I  now  was,  burst 
into  a  flood  of  tears — tears  of  rage,  of  humiliation, 
of  helplessness.  Afterward  I  sat  smarting  at  my 
window,  watching  daylight  turn  to  dusk  and  twilight 
to  darkness. 

"He  finds  no  fault  with  me,  but  with  the  Jew." 
This  ran  through  my  brain  for  days.  However,  little 
by  little  my  wounds  were  healed.  I  soon  began 
to  reason  and  look  for  excuses  for  my  abuser,  as  I 
had  always  done,  and  I  found  some  justification  for 
his  inhuman  act.  But  I  could  not  forget  that  my 
college  fees  were  due  and  my  board  bill  was  not 
settled. 

And  now  a  daring  plan  came  into  my  mind — a 
plan  suggested  by  my  recent  occupation  as  tutor 
and  by  my  desire  to  see  Katia.  I  wrote  a  brief 
formal  note  to  Katia,  without  giving  my  real  name, 
stating  that  I  was  a  student  in  the  university  who 
desired  to  do  some  tutoring,  mentioning  the  branches 
which  I  felt  competent  to  teach,  and  explaining 
that  I  was  writing  her  because  I  understood  that 
she  desired  instruction  in  one  of  these  subjects. 

Two  days  later  the  answer  came.  She  desired  a 
tutor  in  German,  she  wrote — in  fact,  she  had  just 
applied  for  one  at  the  university;  so  she  would  be 
glad  indeed  to  talk  with  me  and  perhaps  arrange 
to  give  her  the  desired  lessons. 


CHAPTER  V 
I  SEE  WITHOUT  BEING  SEEN 

THE  following  day  I  ascended  the  steps  of  the 
Bialnick  mansion  with  a  quivering  heart.  A  foot- 
man immediately  answered  my  ring,  ushered  me 
into  a  sumptuously  furnished  room,  and  disappeared 
with  my  card. 

A  few  minutes  later  a  side  door  opened.  Katia ! 
At  sight  of  her  I  trembled  so  that  I  could  hardly 
keep  my  feet.  Katia  ! — Katia  at  last !  The  same 
Katia,  but  so  grown,  so  changed.  In  my  dreams 
of  her  all  these  years  I  had  always  seen  her  as  a 
slight  girl  in  a  short  frock,  with  her  hair  hanging 
down  her  back.  Now  she  stood  before  me  a  young 
woman.  The  slight  figure  had  matured;  her  gown 
swept  the  floor;  the  luxurious  hair  was  coiled  at 
the  back  of  her  head.  But  her  luminous  eyes, 
of  no  particular  colour,  but  rather  a  mixture  of 
many  colours,  were  the  same,  and  her  soft  smile 
was  the  same,  for  she  was  smiling  at  something 
when  she  came  in,  and  I  could  see  she  was  as  grace- 
ful, as  sweet  as  ever. 

I  steadied  myself  with  my  hands  upon  the  back  of 
a  chair,  and  wondered  if  she  would  recognise  me. 
But  I  had  changed  in  the  years  of  our  separation 

209 


2io  The  Fugitive 

more  than  she  had.  She  greeted  me  as  an  absolute 
stranger. 

"Is  this  Mr.  Russakoff?"  she  asked  in  her  low, 
sweet  voice. 

I  acknowledged  my  name  with  a  bow.  I  could 
not  trust  myself  to  speak.  But  I  immediately 
gained  control  of  myself  and  we  proceeded  to 
business. 

After  we  had  arranged  the  hours  of  instruction, 
price,  and  books,  I  remarked:  "I  ought  to  inform 
you,  perhaps,  at  the  outset,  that  I  am  a  Jew. 
Perhaps  you  have  objections  to  my  race?" 

"Mr.  Russakoff,  your  question  surprises  me," 
she  answered.  "Why,  my  father  is  known  as  a 
friend  of  the  Jews.  As  to  myself" — here  she 
laughed  softly  and  a  blush  crept  down  her  neck — 
"my  dearest  playmate  when  I  was  a  little  girl  was 
a  Jewish  boy." 

At  this  the  control  I  was  trying  so  hard  to  main- 
tain almost  left  me.  I  gripped  myself  and  said 
with  a  show  of  calmness :  "I  did  not  know  how  you 
felt;  some  people  are  so  narrow-minded  and  so 
prejudiced" ;  and  I  told  her  of  my  recent  experience. 

"That  is  a  shame  !"  she  cried  indignantly.  And 
then,  as  if  to  express  her  feeling,  she  added:  "It is, 
of  course,  natural  for  me  to  like  the  Jews  on  account 
of  my  early  intimacy." 

For  a  moment  I  was  tempted  to  disclose  my 
identity,  but  I  obeyed  the  advice  of  prudence  to 
remain  unknown. 


I  See  Without  Being:  Seen  211 

I  soon  left  her  and  repaired  immediately  to  my 
scantily  furnished  room.  She  recalled  our  early 
romance  as  a  mere  childish  fancy,  while  with  me 
it  had  matured  into  a  deep-rooted  affection.  I  now 
realised  more  than  ever  how  deeply  I  loved  her. 

But  what  a  gulf  there  was  now  between  us !  We 
were  no  longer  boy  and  girl,  I  told  myself,  with 
the  natural  impulses  of  childhood.  She  was  now  a 
charming  woman  of  high  social  position,  and  I — 
a  vagabond,  a  poor  devil  of  a  student,  with  nothing 
to  inspire  or  charm  her.  True,  she  had  called  me 
brother  when  I  was  a  mere  tramp,  a  wandering 
little  gipsy,  but  that  was  many  years  ago;  true, 
she  still  remembered  me,  but  to  her  I  was  only  a 
pleasant  memory.  That  was  all  I  was  to  her — a 
pleasant  memory — a  bit  of  recollection  of  playful 
childhood. 

This  change  of  thought  brought  the  images  of 
her  father  and  my  father  to  my  mind.  I  shuddered 
— the  blood  of  Judge  Bialnick  was  flowing  in  her 
veins.  The  consciousness  of  my  race,  of  my  faith 
(little  as  it  was),  of  the  duty  I  owed  to  my  inno- 
cent father,  stirred  my  blood  and  woke  my  calm 
nature.  I  ought  to  think  only  of  vengeance.  I 
ought  to  abandon  my  wild  plan  and  see  Katia  no 
more ! 

But  when  the  decision  was  half  made  my  heart 
was  torn  with  anguish  and  an  irresistible  desire  to 
see  her — just  to  see  her  and  hear  the  cadence  of 
her  voice  again — that  and  no  more;  just  to  be  near 


2i2  The  Fugitive 

her  and  feel  her  presence — nothing  further;  just 
to  be  her  teacher  without  ever  breathing  to  her  the 
secret  of  my  heart — that  was  all  I  wished. 


CHAPTER  VI 
CUPID'S  ARROWS 

WHEN  I  called  to  give  my  pupil  her  first  lesson 
I  found  her  father  present.  A  shiver  passed  through 
me  as  he  grasped  my  hand.  He  eyed  me  so  in- 
tently that  I  thought  he  had  recognised  me,  but 
his  remark  that  followed  convinced  me  that  he 
had  not. 

"It  is  rather  strange,  Mr.  Russakoff,"  he  said, 
"  that  there  is  a  close  resemblance  among  intellectual 
Jews.  At  the  first  glance  I  thought  I  had  met  you 
before." 

I  made  an  evasive  remark,  and  he  chatted  on, 
asking  about  my  native  town,  my  parents,  my 
previous  studies;  to  most  of  which  questions,  I 
am  sorry  to  record,  I  gave  false  replies  in  order  to 
avoid  suspicion. 

As  he  sat  talking  in  his  big  arm-chair  I  watched 
him  furtively.  The  change  in  him  was  almost 
startling;  his  hair  and  beard  were  fast  turning 
white,  and  there  was  a  perceptible  nervousness  in 
his  movements ;  even  the  hue  of  his  skin  had  changed. 
His  eyelids  drooped  frequently,  and  there  was  a 
certain  laxity,  like  that  of  extreme  indolence,  in 

213 


214  The  Fugitive 

his  speech  and  gestures.  Every  few  minutes  he 
nervously  passed  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  an  act 
which  I  soon  perceived  had  become  with  him  a 
habit. 

I  found  myself  speechless  in  his  presence.  I  was 
surprised  at  myself.  I  had  always  told  myself  that 
when  chance  brought  us  together  I  would  denounce 
him  and  take  vengeance ;  but  now  that  I  was  in  his 
presence  I  felt  no  anger — instead,  I  pitied  him.  I 
could  easily  see  that  he  constantly  suffered  great 
pain,  that  he  was  a  physical  wreck;  and  it  was 
obvious  that  he  suffered  mental  agony  no  less 
intense  than  the  physical.  For  the  time,  com- 
passion banished  my  hatred. 

I  continued  giving  Katia  lessons  four  times  a 
week  without  so  much  as  betraying  a  sign  of  my 
identity.  Occasionally  we  would  drift  off  the 
lesson  to  the  discussion  of  other  matters.  We 
talked  of  history,  of  novels,  of  poetry,  of  char- 
acters in  fiction.  I  often  wondered  where  I  got 
the  phrases  and  picturesque  descriptions  which  I 
used  in  making  my  ideas  clear  to  her.  I  simply 
drew  inspiration  from  her  to  give  it  back  to  her. 
Sometimes  her  look  would  thrill  me ;  then  I  would 
drop  my  eyes,  and  when  again  I  raised  them  I 
would  see  her  cheeks  suffused  with  blushes  and  her 
own  eyes  burning  with  intense  emotion.  I  would 
wonder  if  that  show  of  feeling  was  induced  by  our 
talk — or  was  it  an  indication  that  she  cared  for 


Cupid's  Atfows  215 

me  ?  I  realised  that  I  was  a  nobody,  and  therefore 
she  could  not  care  for  me;  and  yet  how 
kindly,  how  sympathetically  she  treated  me — me, 
a  vagabond,  a  son  of  the  hated  race,  a  child  of 
persecution ! 

I  was  playing  with  fire.  I  knew  it,  and  yet  I 
loved  to  be  burned.  I  would  feel  happy  and  miser- 
able at  the  same  time.  I  would  become  possessed 
at  once  with  jealousy  and  hatred  of  myself  for 
harbouring  that  jealousy.  I  reasoned  that  if  she 
now  loved  me — Ivan  Petrowitch  Russakoff — she 
had  forgotten  Israel  Yudelowitch  Abramowitch, 
and  I  could  not  bear  the  idea  that  she  did  not  love 
my  old  self. 

One  afternoon  I  gave  her  my  interpretation  of 
Heine's  "  Traumbilder,  II."  I  read  with  all  the 
glow  and  enthusiasm  with  which  this  bard,  whose 
soul  I  understood  better  than  that  of  any  other  poet, 
has  always  inspired  me.  I  forgot  my  sorrows  in 
feeling  his.  His  words  seemed  to  me  like  drops  of 
honey  dripping  from  a  poisoned  honeycomb.  His 
heart  was  poisoned  with  the  same  venom  that 
embittered  my  own.  I  have  always  imagined  when 
reading  Heine  that  when  he  laughed  tears  were 
trickling  down  his  cheeks,  and  when  he  cried  a  smile 
of  defiance  and  irony  played  around  the  deep 
corners  of  his  mouth. 

While  I  read,  Katia  sat  with  her  lustrous  eyes 
fixed  upon  me.  She  did  not  once  stir.  She  seemed 


216  The  Fugitive 

as  much  possessed  by  this  magnificent  lyric  as  I 
was. 

"Read  it  again,  Gospodin  Russakoff,"  she  asked, 
sighing  deeply,  when  I  had  finished  the  last  line. 
"  You  speak  like  a  poet  yourself,  and  how  your  eyes 
change  from  their  steady  brown  to  pitch-black! 
You  remind  me  of  Israel,  the  Jewish  boy  I  told  you 
of,"  she  added,  smiling  faintly.  "  I  almost  fear  you 
when  you  read  as  you  have  done — your  eyes  look 
so  strange  when  you  are  aroused." 

"You  must  not  be  afraid  of  me,"  I  said,  thrown 
into  throbbing  confusion  by  her  words.  "I  am  too 
weak  to  hurt  anybody." 

The  night  following  that  afternoon  I  lay  a  long 
time  awake,  my  mind  a  prey  to  incoherent  thoughts 
and  memories.  "How  your  eyes  change  from 
their  steady  brown  to  pitch-black"  passed  through 
my  mind  again  and  again.  I  had  never  noticed 
the  colour  of  my  eyes.  She  had.  What  could  it 
mean?  "You  remind  me  of  Israel,  the  Jewish  boy 
I  told  you  of."  I  again  recalled  her  words. 
Evidently  the  memory  of  that  boy  was  still  sweet  to 
her,  and  evidently  she  was  interested  in  me.  My 
heart  almost  leaped  out  of  my  breast  at  the 
thought. 

I  was  near  falling  asleep  from  mere  mental  ex- 
haustion; my  mind  was  raving  already — just  a 
wink  from  unconsciousness — when  in  the  blank 
darkness  of  my  chamber  the  form  of  a  female  shaped 
itself  before  me.  Thick,  light-brown  hair  with  a 


Cupid's  Arrows  217 

silky  gloss,  brilliantly  smiling  eyes,  an  exquisitely 
shaped  mouth  with  deep  corners,  fine  arched  eye- 
brows, a  fine  bosom — it  remained  but  a  moment, 
then  gradually  faded  away,  and  in  its  place  the 
small  golden  crucifix  which  Katia  wore  suspended 
from  a  fine  gold  chain  around  her  neck  grew  larger 
and  larger  until  it  assumed  the  shape  and  size  of  a 
female  form.  A  minute  later  the  figure  of  a  woman 
again  appeared,  and  again  it  vanished,  and  that  little 
golden  cross  was  metamorphosed  into  the  form  of 
a  person,  and — behold !  the  features  were  mine. 
Oh,  that  little  golden  cross  !  What  pangs  and  morti- 
fication it  added  to  my  wounded  heart !  As  soon  as 
I  would  begin  to  think  of  Katia  (and  when  did  I  not 
think  of  her  ?)  that  tiny  cross,  as  if  by  magic,  would 
appear  before  my  fancy,  swaying  to  and  fro  and 
growing  larger  and  larger  until  it  assumed  the  size 
and  proportions  of  a  human  form  with  my  own 
features. 

Weeks  passed  by.  The  hope  that  had  sprung 
up  within  me  was  soon  succeeded  by  doubt,  by 
thoughts  of  my  own  insignificance.  Of  course  I 
loved  her  madly — loved  her  as  no  one  else  had  ever 
loved,  I  thought.  But  I  had  also  been  in  love  many 
times  with  the  brilliant  stars  that  shone  on  a 
serene  frosty  night.  And  was  I  not  as  far  from  my 
beloved  Katia  as  I  was  from  the  stars?  "I,  a 
poor  vagabond,  a  struggling  student  who  earns  his 
bread  by  giving  lessons  and  scribbling  lyrics  at  a 
penny  a  line,  a  wandering  Jew  hated  and  scorned 


2i8  The  Fugitive 

by  all,  without  a  place  to  call  home — have  I  the 
right  to  love  Katia  and  drag  her  down  to  my  level — 
her  who,  besides  her  social  position,  is  in  every 
respect  superior  to  me?"  I  would  ask  myself. 

"But  have  I  no  right  to  love  her,  though  she  is 
so  much  above  me?"  I  would  demand  in  behalf  of 
my  passion.  "Must  the  poor's  right  to  love  be 
restricted,  just  as  are  all  his  other  privileges,  and 
confined  within  a  narrow  compass?"  And  anger 
would  swell  my  breast  against  all  the  rich  people 
of  the  world,  as  if  they  had  taken  sides  against  me. 
"She  may  not  reciprocate  my  love — that  is  as  she 
will.  I  only  justify  my  right  to  love  her." 

But  if  she  was  to  learn  that  I  loved  her,  I  told 
myself,  she  would  discharge  me  immediately.  Dis- 
missal I  could  not  stand.  I  would  rather  a  thousand 
times  over  suffer  the  pangs  of  an  untold  love  than 
be  sent  away  from  her.  Her  servant — her  slave — 
I  cared  not  what  my  position  was  so  long  as  I  could 
continue  to  see  her. 

In  one  of  our  talks  I  casually  touched  the  history 
of  the  Jews  in  Spain,  the  pages  of  which  are  aflame 
with  fire  and  blood.  I  must  have  talked  with  no 
little  fervour  and  enthusiasm,  for  I  noticed  tears 
sparkling  in  the  eyes  of  my  pupil.  I  asked  whether 
I  had  hurt  her  feelings.  She  only  smiled  in  response, 
but  a  minute  later  she  said  in  her  sweet,  sympa- 
thetic voice:  "It  must  have  hurt  you  to  speak  of 
it,  Mr.  Russakoff.  How  your  eyes  changed  !" 

After  that  lesson  I  went  home  like  a  somnambulist. 


Cupid's  Arrows  219 

I  recall  a  collision  with  something  or  somebody,  and 
that  somebody  muttered:  "It  is  really  a  shame  to 
have  drunkards  stagger  through  the  streets." 
Next  I  remember  my  head  met  with  something  as 
bulky  and  as  hard  as  mine,  and  the  owner  of  it 
grumbled,  "  Bolshay  Durak  [big  fool] !"  and  then  I 
remember,  as  through  a  mist,  myself  seated  on  the 
old  sofa  in  my  room,  my  head  between  my  hands, 
looking  fixedly  upon  the  head  of  a  nail  in  my  carpet- 
less  floor.  I  cannot  tell  how  long  I  studied  that 
object  before  a  jolly  laugh,  which  sounded  queer 
in  my  ears,  interrupted  my  reflection,  and  a  hand 
shook  me  by  the  shoulder  rather  violently. 

I  looked  up  and  recognised  Ephraim  Razovski. 

"You  must  have  a  nightmare,"  laughed  Razovski 
again,  slapping  me  on  the  shoulder.  "  I  rapped  on 
your  door  more  than  etiquette  permits,  but  you 
were  evidently  so  absorbed  in  your  dreams  that  you 
did  not  hear  me  at  all.  So  I  ventured  to  open  the 
door  myself,  for  I  saw  the  key  sticking  on  the 
inside.  Wake  up,  comrade  !  You  must  not  dream 
in  your  fur  coat."  Again  he  laughed  a  hearty, 
sonorous  peal. 

"You  are  perhaps  dreaming  of  writing  for  the 
Morning  Star  an  article  against  assimilation,  you 
Orientalist,  you  Ghetto  mystic,"  he  continued, 
having  received  no  answer  from  me.  "You  always 
come  out  with  your  bosh  about  the  glorious  Jewish 
past,  their  wonderful  history  and  their  philosophic 
monotheism,  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  Can't  we 


220  The  Fugitive 

look  into  the  face  of  truth  and  realise  that  the 
world  is  waiting  for  us  to  assimilate  if  we  just  say 
the  word?  Wake  up,  you  dreamer!"  And  he 
slapped  me  on  the  shoulder  again. 

"There  must  be  something  wrong  with  you," 
Razovski  continued,  shaking  me  by  my  long  hair. 
"Wake  up,  Israel  [he  always  called  me  by  my 
Jewish  name].  If  it  is  love,  a  night's  rest  and 
sound  sleep  will  readily  cure  you  of  it.  I  fell 
in  love  at  least  a  score  of  times,  and  every  time  I 
thought  I  would  not  be  able  to  survive  it,  and  in 
spite  of  that  I  lived  long  enough  to  fall  in  love  with 
some  other  'best  girl  in  the  world." 

He  took  my  head  in  both  his  hands  and  examined 
my  face  playfully.  "I  surmised  correctly,"  he 
laughed.  "Your  absent-mindedness  and  these  blue 
rings  betray  you.  Indeed,  you  are  more  sensitive 
than  I  thought;  this  is  only  a  momentary  sickness. 
Once  I  believed  that  a  person  could  love  one  girl 
only,  and  if  that  one  rejected  him  he  should  seize 
the  first  knife  he  could  get  and  send  his  soul  to  the 
better  world.  My  twenty -six  years  of  experience, 
however,  have  taught  me  differently.  If  you  are 
in  love  with  a  girl  and  she  is  indifferent  to  you,  seize 
the  first  opportunity  and  fall  in  love  with  another. 
This  is  the  best  cure  I  can  recommend  as  a  layman. 
Ha !  ha !  ha !  Isn't  that  a  good  prescription  for  a 
lawyer?" 

"Well,  good  night,  comrade,"  he  said  after  a  few 
moments  of  silence.  "  I  just  dropped  in  to  see  you. 


Cupid's  Arrows  221 

It  is  getting  dark  and  I  have  yet  a  lot  of  work  to  do. 
Well,  good  night.  I  will  let  you  dream  of  your 
best  girl,"  and  he  slammed  the  door  after  him. 


CHAPTER  VII 
A   GREAT   EVENT 

THE  next  day  was  the  ever-memorable  March  13, 
1 88 1 — the  date  of  the  assassination  of  Alexander 
II.  The  bomb  which  exploded  in  St.  Petersburg 
shook  the  entire  empire.  Immediately  the  whole 
nation  was  in  mourning;  the  theaters  were  closed, 
music  was  forbidden,  every  place  of  amusement 
was  desolated.  The  very  air  was  filled  with  sadness 
and  fear;  every  heart  trembled  with  consternation, 
for  even  a  loud  laugh  was  regarded  suspiciously. 
The  student  element  feared  the  most,  for  the  students 
were  known  as  the  chief  conspirators.  Following  the 
murder,  they  were  arrested  everywhere  on  the 
slightest  shadow  of  suspicion;  thousands  were  im- 
prisoned during  that  month.  Close  watch  was 
kept  over  all  the  students,  and  the  least  sus- 
picion or  denunciation  was  sufficient  to  throw  a 
student  into  prison,  perhaps  never  to  come  out  again. 
People  in  the  streets  did  not  talk  above  a  whisper. 
One  heard  of  nothing  but  arrests. 

That  night  I  sat  in  my  room  trying  to  study, 
but  could  not  fix  my  mind  upon  my  books.  The 
news  of  the  murder  of  the  Czar  and  a  fear  that  in 
some  manner  the  Jews  would  be  made  scapegoats 

222 


A  Great  Event  223 

had  unnerved  me.  I  moved  restlessly  about  my 
room,  stirring  my  fire,  peering  out  of  my  window 
at  the  snow-sheeted  roofs,  listening  to  the  passage 
of  crunching  footsteps  and  tinkling  sleigh-bells. 

About  midnight  there  was  a  gentle  knock  on  my 
door.  I  jumped  up  with  a  palpitating  heart  (though 
I  knew  the  knock  was  too  gentle  for  the  police) 
and  turned  the  knob.  A  short,  stocky  man  wearing 
glasses  stood  before  me.  He  was  Mr.  Levinski, 
a  gifted  journalist,  with  whom  I  had  become 
acquainted  through  Ephraim. 

Mr.  Levinski  entered,  pale  and  shivering.  "  No 
time  to  stop,"  he  whispered  hurriedly.  "I  have 
just  come  to  warn  you.  Razovski  has  been  arrested. 
Examine  your  books — quick.  The  police  are 
ransacking  the  whole  city.  Eight  Jewish  students 
have  been  arrested.  Good  night. "  And  he  closed 
the  door  behind  him. 

I  bolted  the  door  and  examined  every  scrap  of 
paper  I  had  in  my  trunk.  I  burned  all  the  letters 
I  had  ever  received  from  Razovski  and  some  manu- 
scripts that  might  be  construed  in  a  manner  to 
throw  suspicion  upon  me. 

I  thought  I  had  nothing  to  be  afraid  of,  and  a 
little  later  I  tested  the  lock  of  my  door  and  crept 
into  bed.  I  had  scarcely  settled  myself  for  sleep 
when  three  blows  against  the  door  made  the  walls 
of  the  house  shake. 

"In  the  name  of  the  law,  open!"  thundered  a 
voice. 


224  The  Fugitive 

I  leaped  out  of  bed  and  unlocked  the  door. 
Four  officers  entered. 

"Is  your  name  Ivan  Petro witch  Russakoff?" 
demanded  the  leader. 

I  said  that  was  my  name. 

"Do  you  know  a  student  by  the  name  of 
Razovski?"  I  was  asked  abruptly. 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  have  any  communication  with  him?" 

I  said  that  we  had  exchanged  some  friendly 
letters. 

"When  did  you  first  get  acquainted  with  him?" 

I  explained  to  him. 

"Do  you  have  any  relations  in  St.  Petersburg 
by  the  name  of  Russakoff?" 

I  told  him  that  I  was  an  orphan  and  that  I  did 
not  know  any  of  my  relatives,  nor  in  fact  did  I 
know  whether  I  had  any. 

"Search  the  room,"  commanded  the  chief  to 
his  subordinates.  Every  nook  was  ransacked. 
They  even  threw  my  pillows  out  of  their  cases. 
But  nothing  suspicious  was  found. 

"What  are  these  short  lines?"  demanded  the 
chief,  pointing  at  a  manuscript  poem,  without 
reading  it. 

"  It  is  a  poem,"  I  said. 

"A  what?" 

"A  poem,"  I  repeated. 

"Well,  you'll  have  to  explain  to  the  chief  of  the 
detective  bureau  what  a  poem  is,"  he  replied 


A  Great  Event  225 

with  a  burst  of  laughter.  And  ordering  me  to  appear 
before  the  chief,  he  and  the  other  officers  departed. 
The  relief  I  felt  at  their  departure  can  be  easily 
imagined.  While  they  had  been  ransacking  my 
room  I  saw  the  prison  gates  yawning  to  receive  me. 
I  went  to  bed,  not  to  sleep,  but  to  wonder  fearfully 
what  changes  the  next  few  days  might  bring. 

Presently  there  came  a  third  knocking  at  my 
door — this  time  so  gently  that  I  could  scarcely 
hear  it.  I  held  my  breath.  Everything  was  still; 
only  the  buzzing  of  the  burning  lamp  was  heard. 
I  feared  to  answer  the  knock,  so  I  rose  on  my 
elbow  and  stared  in  terror  in  the  direction  of  the 
door. 

"Israel!"  came  through  the  keyhole  in  a  husky 
voice. 

"Who  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"Open." 

I  opened  the  door  and  started  back  a  step  or 
two.  A  large,  bearded  muzhik,  in  a  sheepskin  hat 
and  fur  cloak,  girdled  by  a  red  belt,  stood  in  the 
doorway.  Warning  me  by  a  gesture  to  keep 
silent,  he  bolted  the  door  behind  him. 

In  another  instant  the  beard  and  hat  were  thrown 
off  and  I  beheld  Dolgoff. 

"  Razovski  is  in  the  net,"  he  said  in  a  low,  trem- 
ulous voice.  "As  usual,  I  escaped,"  he  added 
with  a  faint  smile.  "I  came  to  you  for  help." 

I  answered  nothing. 

"  Not  for  me ;  I  am  safe,"  he  continued.     "  Razov- 


226  The  Fugitive 

ski's  friend,  Judge  Bialnick,  is  in  danger.  His 
house  is  guarded.  The  police  spy  him.  If  he 
leaves  it  in  three-quarters  of  an  hour  (which  he 
will  unless  he  is  warned  in  time)  he  will  never  see 
his  home  again." 

"I'll  go,"   I  said,  trembling  with  agitation. 

"  Don't  say  yes  before  you  hear  the  nature  of 
your  mission,"  he  said  smilingly.  "  Bialnick's  house 
is  guarded  three  squares  around.  You  will  be 
stopped  half  a  dozen  times  within  the  Pecherskoi, 
and  unless  successful  you  will  not  come  back  to 
this  cosey  nook.  I  don't  want  you  to  undertake 
this  task  without  fully  realising  the  risk  attached 
to  it." 

"I'll  go,"  I  repeated  parrot-like,  shivering 
with  anxiety  for  Katia. 

"I  would  have  gone  myself,  but  my  absence 
from  another  place  would  ruin  a  score  of  faithful 
members.  A  secret  meeting,  which  was  discovered 
by  the  police,  was  to  be  held  to-night.  Every 
member  who  will  start  for  our  meeting-place  will 
never  see  his  home  again.  I  don't  wish  to  impose 
upon  you,  but  if  you  are  fearless  enough  you  will 
have  a  chance  to  save  the  life  of  a  noble  man,  who 
is  also  a  champion  of  the  Jews." 

"I'll  go,"  I  reiterated,  moving  about  impa- 
tiently. Many  conflicting  thoughts  rushed  through 
my  brain;  it  was  the  battle  between  revenge  and 
forgiveness.  "  Love  your  enemies,  bless  them  that 
curse  you,  do  good  to  them  that  hate  you,  and 


A  Great  Event  227 

pray  for  them  that  despitefully  use  you  and  perse- 
cute you,"  a  weird  voice  whispered  to  me.  "I'll 
go — I'll  go,"  I  reiterated  nervously,  lest  I  should 
change  my  mind. 

Dolgoff  took  a  bundle  from  under  his  arm, 
unrolled  it,  and  disclosed  an  artificial  beard,  a  pair 
of  glasses,  and  a  cap  with  a  cockade.  "  Ready  ? "  he 
asked.  In  an  instant  I  was  entirely  transformed; 
my  daily  companions  could  not  have  recognised 
me.  "Remember,  you  are  Doctor  Orshanski,  the 
famous  surgeon.  The  impersonation  is  complete." 
He  examined  me  studiously  and  added,  half  to  me, 
half  to  himself:  "The  hat  should  be  drawn  a  little 
lower — that's  better." 

"Now  go,"  he  said.  "You  will  find  a  droshky 
on  the  corner.  Get  in  without  saying  a  word  to 
the  driver.  Ask  no  questions  on  the  way.  If  you 
are  stopped,  answer  'Doctor  Orshanski.'  If  you  are 
asked  where  you  are  bound  for,  say,  '  Miss  Bialnick 
sprained  her  ankle.'  The  coachman  will  put  you 
off  at  the  right  place.  Ring  the  bell  and  ask  to 
see  the  Judge  personally.  If  you  are  refused,  say 
'  Pax. '  When  you  meet  him,  don't  introduce 
yourself,  but  simply  tell  him  to  stay  at  home  three 
days  on  pretense  of  sickness.  When  that  is  said, 
don't  add  another  word,  but  depart  at  once.  Now 
go,  quick;  don't  lose  a  moment's  time." 

The  droshky  sped  like  lightning  for  fully  twenty 
minutes.  The  driver  avoided  principal  streets.  I 
was  only  stopped  once,  and  before  I  had  time  to 


228  The  Fugitive 

give  my  name  the  officer  said,  "  Pass  on,  Dr.  Orshan- 
ski,"  without  any  interrogations.  Other  partic- 
ulars of  the  ride  I  do  not  remember.  All  the  way 
my  brain  was  so  feverish  that  I  was  like  one  stunned. 
When  I  was  just  in  the  act  of  ringing  the  bell  the 
door  opened  and  the  Judge  appeared  before  me, 
robed  in  a  heavy  fur  cloak.  I  delivered  my  mes- 
sage, and  for  fear  of  being  recognised  by  him  I  turned 
quickly  and  sped  home. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
LOVE  CONQUERS  DISCRETION 

THE  following  morning  I  was  called  before  the 
chief,  and  after  a  brief  trial  was  told  to  go  home, 
but  warned  that  I  was  "under  the  suspicion  of 
the  police." 

On  my  way  home  I  learned  from  Mr.  Levinski, 
who  had  had  an  interview  with  the  chief  of  police 
concerning  Ephraim,  that  Ephraim  was  also  arrested 
on  suspicion  only,  but  his  case  was  rather  serious 
because  he  had  carried  on  some  correspondence  with 
Professor  Dragmanoff,  who  was  a  great  agitator  of 
Nihilism  and  who  had  fled  to  Switzerland.  The 
worst  for  Ephraim  was,  however,  his  being  found 
destroying  papers,  and  the  discovery  in  his  trunk 
of  letters  from  Dragmanoff  after  his  denial  of  ever 
having  corresponded  with  the  Professor.  Besides 
other  "censored"  books,  "The  Revisor"  (Gogol's 
famous  drama  of  corruption),  which  had  been 
particularly  suppressed  that  winter,  was  also  found 
in  Ephraim's  possession.  Mr.  Levinski  gave  it  as 
his  opinion  that  Ephraim  would  certainly  be  sent 
to  Siberia. 

However,  the  misfortune  that  befell  my  friend, 
and  the  still  graver  affliction  that  the  nation  had 

229 


230  The  Fugitive 

sustained  by  losing  the  noblest  of  its  emperors,  were 
as  naught  compared  to  my  anxiety  about  Katia. 
Of  what  interest  or  value  was  Russia  to  me  ?  What 
did  it  matter  that  the  liberal  Czar  was  assassinated 
when  Katia,  who  was  more  to  me  than  my  nation, 
my  creed,  my  race,  and  above  kings  and  queens, 
was  away  from  me  and  yet  dwelt  in  the  innermost 
chamber  of  my  heart  ?  For  who  is  more  selfish,  jeal- 
ous, conceited  than  a  lover?  Human  beings,  the 
animal  kingdom,  and  other  matters  like  pen,  ink, 
or  paper,  serve  only  one  purpose — to  communicate 
his  or  her  feverish  sentiments  to  the  beloved. 
Even  the  world  plays  a  trifling  part  when  the 
egotistic  lover  is  engaged  in  the  amorous  vanity  of 
the  heart.  And  yet  the  world  was  built  on  love, 
so  the  poets  say.  Love  is  the  magnetism  which 
holds  together  the  molecules  of  humanity. 

I  stayed  in  my  room  two  days,  and  then,  the 
excitement  being  over,  I  went  to  give  Katia  her 
regular  lesson.  I  was  shown  into  the  reception 
room,  where  I  found  her  taking  leave  of  a  tall, 
stout  man  of  military  bearing.  I  had  met  him 
several  times  before,  but  he  had  evaded  an  intro- 
duction, always  overlooking  me  with  obvious  con- 
tempt. 

This  time  he  could  not  avoid  meeting  me,  but  he 
acknowledged  the  introduction  formally  with  a  bow 
that  seemed  to  mean:  "What  the  devil  is  the  Jew 
doing  here?" 

He  remained  only  a  few  minutes  longer,  and  when 


Love  Conquers  Discretion  231 

he  departed  he  did  not  give  me  even  so  much  as  a 
friendly  look. 

"Is  it  not  horrible,  Mr.  Russakoff?"  Katia 
began  tremulously.  "My  father  has  been  sick  in 
bed  for  the  four  days  since  the  fearful  news 
reached  us.  He  takes  this  catastrophe  so  to  heart. 
It  is  terrible !  Oh,  the  Nihilists  are  ruining  this 
country !  Why  cannot  people  live  peacefully,  I 
wonder?" 

She  dropped  into  a  chair  as  if  from  sheer  exhaus- 
tion. She  evidently  knew  nothing  of  misery,  of 
suffering,  of  starvation,  of  oppression — she  did  not 
even  know  her  own  father. 

For  a  while  we  talked  of  her  father,  of  the  Nihil- 
ists, of  the  possible  results  of  the  Czar's  assassi- 
nation; and  then  our  talk  shifted  to  Heine,  whose 
"  Reisebilder "  she  was  reading  with  my  assist- 
ance. 

"I  always  wondered  how  those  poets  could  write 
so  much  on  the  single  subject  of  love,"  Katia 
remarked;  and  then  she  immediately  blushed,  as 
if  she  wished  to  recall  her  words. 

"Because  they  felt  so  much,"  I  answered. 

"It  seems  strange,"  she  went  on  hesitatingly, 
playing  with  the  golden  crucifix  that  dangled  over 
her  bosom.  "When  my  feelings  are  touched  I  have 
very  few  words  to  say,  and  for  the  rest" — she 
broke  the  sentence  with  a  forced  laugh — ' '  I  cry. 
I  think  that  tears  are  the  poetry  that  flows  from 
the  very  depths  of  one's  soul,  while  words  come 


232  The  Fugitive 

more  often  from  the  brain.  Don't  you  ever  feel 
inclined  to  shed  tears,  Mr.  Russakoff?" 

"Sometimes,"  I  replied  in  a  stifled  tone;  and 
immediately  I  added  with  an  attempt  at  lightness: 
"And  sometimes  I  relieve  my  feelings  as  the  poets 
do — in  verses." 

A  silence  of  a  minute  or  more  followed,  during 
which  she  glanced  at  me  several  times  from  under 
her  lowered  eyelashes. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  resumed,  clearing  her  throat 
as  she  spoke,  "the  more  I  see  of  you  the  more  you 
remind  me  of  Israel.  He  was  always  melancholy." 

Again  there  was  silence.  I  quivered  with  delight 
at  the  introduction  of  my  old  self.  "What  became 
of  this  early  friend?"  I  asked  at  length. 

She  flushed  slightly  and  twirled  the  chain  of  her 
crucifix. 

"  He  ran  away.  He  was  too  sensitive.  In  that 
respect  he  was  also  like  you." 

"  I  suppose  he  felt  guilty  of  some  wrong.  Sensi- 
tive people  cannot  bear  their  own  wrongs,  though 
they  can  tolerate  the  same  wrongs  in  others,"  I 
rejoined. 

"No.  It  was  I  who  was  to  blame  for  it  all."  She 
flushed  again.  "I  committed  the  wrong  and  he 
was  punished.  My  father  was  a  little  too  harsh 
on  him." 

Then  she  added:  "I  am  inclined  to  believe  that 
my  father  was  also  very  fond  of  that  boy,  for  he 
talked  of  him  quite  often,  and  of  his  purpose  to 


Love  Conquers  Discretion  233 

educate  him  and  make  a  great  man  of  him.  He  was 
exceptionally  bright." 

"And  yet  you  drove  him  out  of  your  house  and 
forced  him  to  become  a  vagrant,  as  he  undoubtedly 
has  become,"  I  said,  forgetting  for  the  moment  that 
I  was  supposed  to  know  nothing  of  this  incident. 

She  glanced  at  me  in  bewilderment  at  these 
words.  "You  are  quite  mistaken,  Mr.  Russakoff," 
she  rejoined  somewhat  confusedly.  "He  ran  away 
voluntarily." 

I  perceived  that  she  was  not  aware  that  I  had 
been  asked  to  leave,  and  I  saw  no  reason  for  enlight- 
ening her.  After  an  awkward  pause  I  said  jealously : 
"  It  is  unfortunate  for  two  young  people  of  different 
stations  in  life  to  fall  in  love.  It  is  better  that 
they  should  be  separated.  Think  of  that  Jewish 
boy" — I  was  smiling  and  yet  trembling — "now 
grown  to  manhood  and  come  to  claim  you." 

"It  would  all  depend,"  she  replied,  looking  down 
and  fingering  her  crucifix. 

"Yes,  it  would  all  depend  on  his  being  rich  and 
famous  and  handsome,"  I  said  bitterly. 

"Oh,  no.  It  would  all  depend  on  his  being  the 
same  as  he  had  been,"  she  said  very  softly,  her  face 
warm  with  blushes.  "There  is  nothing  specific  we 
love;  we  love  something  indefinable,  and  we  can 
only  love  as  long  as  that  indefinable  attraction 
exists." 

"But  suppose,"  I  continued  eagerly,  my  eyes 
fixed  intently  upon  her,  "your  early  lover  should 


234  The  Fugitive 

come  as  a  poor  student,  nameless,  without  a  fortune, 
and  yet  possessed  of  that  indefinable  something? " 

She  quivered  perceptibly  and  turned  her  eyes 
away  from  me,  her  breath  coming  fast  and  short. 

All  my  feelings  of  unworthiness,  all  my  vows  of 
silence  went  to  the  winds.  I  leaned  forward,  on 
fire  with  love,  and  caught  her  hand.  "Katia!"  I 
whispered. 

She  started. 

"  Katia !  "  I  implored.     "  Don't  you  know  me  ? " 

She  trembled,  and  her  head  sank  forward  so  that 
I  could  not  see  her  face. 

"Katia — Katia,  I  have  lived  for  years  with  one 
thought,  one  desire,  one  hope — to  find  you.  And 
at  last  I  have  found  you — Katia  !" 

Her  breast  rose  and  fell  violently,  but  she  did  not 
speak. 

"I  am  the  same  Israel — the  Israel  who  used  to 
play  with  you — who  used  to  love  you."  I  pressed 
her  hand  more  closely.  "Don't  you  remember — 
don't  you  remember  that  afternoon  when  we  sat 
together?  Don't  you  remember  your  promise? 
Aren't  you  the  same  Katia — the  same  little  Katia 
who  once  loved  me  a  little — a  little  bit,  at  least?" 

A  hot  tear  splashed  upon  my  wrist. 

"Katia !"  I  cried,  all  my  soul  in  that  one  word. 

I  dropped  to  the  floor  beside  her  and  dared  to 
touch  her  chin,  with  the  intention  of  raising  her 
head.  But  it  came  slowly  up  of  its  own  accord. 
She  turned  her  glorious  eyes,  brimming  with  tears, 


Love  Conquers  Discretion  235 

full  upon  me,  and  her  face  threw  open  heaven  to 
me. 

"You — you!    Oh,  Israel!"  she  whispered. 


CHAPTER   IX 
I  BEND  TO  THE  CROSS 

AFTER  a  while  we  began  to  talk  of  the  years  that 
had  passed  since  I  had  tramped  through  the  sleety 
night  away  from  Zamok.  She  told  me  of  her 
experiences,  all  of  which  were  very  quiet,  for  her 
life  had  moved  on  evenly  and  happily;  and  I  told 
her  of  the  Yeshiva  of  Javolin,  of  Malke,  of  the 
gymnasium  at  Vilno.  Then  our  talk  became  more 
broken. 

"How  surprised  father  will  be  to  learn  who  you 
really  are,"  she  said  at  one  time  during  the  evening. 
I  made  haste  to  suggest  that  it  might  be  wisest  not 
to  reveal  my  identity  to  him  just  yet,  giving  reasons 
which,  though  plausible,  were  not  the  ones  which 
actually  influenced  me.  To  this  she  agreed. 

When  I  told  her  the  poems  which  appeared 
weekly  in  the  Moskovski  Gazette,  and  for  which 
she  had  often  expressed  admiration,  were  mine, 
she  assumed  an  "I-told-'Tou-so"  air  that  was 
bewitching. 

"Don't  you  remember,  I  used  to  say  that  some 
day  you  would  be  a  great  poet  like  Pushkin  or 
Lermontoff— 

236 


I  Bend  to  the  Cross  237 

"And  then,"  I  interrupted  her,  "you  remember 
what  you  promised?  " 

"Why,  you  foolish  Israel — then,"  she  laughed 
rapturously  and  dropped  her  head  on  my  breast. 

I  asked  about  the  officer  whom  I  had  seen  so 
frequently  at  her  house  and  to  whom  I  had  that 
day  been  introduced,  and  she  confessed  to  me  that 
he  had  proposed  to  her  twice  within  the  last  two 
weeks. 

"When  you  think  of  that  fine-looking  man,  how 
can  you  love  me?"  I  asked  with  a  tinge  of  jealousy. 
"Me— a  Jew?" 

"Oh,  you  foolish,  foolish  boy!"  she  cried,  again 
showing  her  affection  in  a  way  that  was  more  ex- 
pressive than  words. 

"  But  don't  you  know  that  the  law  stands  in  the 
way  of  our  marriage?"  I  asked.  For  the  time,  this 
had  escaped  my  own  mind. 

"Why,  no,  it  doesn't.  You  only  have  to 
be  baptised  —  that's  all,"  she  returned  inno- 
cently. 

Baptised — that's  all.  I  thought  I  had  long 
abandoned  my  faith  and  was  free  from  its  beliefs 
and  prejudices,  but  at  these  words,  spoken  in  a 
matter-of-fact  voice,  my  Jewish  sentiment  arose 
in  revolt  against  this  imminent  apostasy. 

I  might  not  believe  in  Judaism,  but  could  I  even, 
as  a  matter  of  form,  adopt  the  faith  of  the  perse- 
cutors of  my  race  ? 

"Of  course  you  believe  in  Christ,"  said  Katia. 


238  The  Fugitive 

Evidently  she  did  not  fully  understand  the  difference 
between  a  Jew  and  a  Christian. 

I  gazed  at  her,  but  a  mist  gathered  before  my  eyes 
and  a  thousand  bells  seemed  to  chime  in  my  ears. 
All  I  could  see  was  the  golden  cross  upon  Katia's 
breast — to  me  the  symbol  of  my  people's  wrongs. 
But  in  another  instant  I  saw  Katia's  eyes,  glorious 
with-love. 

"Yes,"  I  whispered. 

"And  you'll  be  baptised?" 

"Yes,"  I  repeated.     The  word  almost  choked  me. 

"Oh,  Israel,  we'll  be  so  happy !  "  and  she  slipped 
her  arms  about  my  neck  and  kissed  me  again  and 
again. 

What  was  then  race  or  faith  to  me  ?  Who  thought 
of  religion?  I  felt  her  heart  beat  against  mine — I 
felt  her  glowing  cheek  against  mine.  I  loved  her; 
she  loved  me.  What  does  love  care  for  creeds. and 
ceremonies  which  have  emanated  from  cold  or 
mystic  brains  ?  Love  was  my  faith — Katia's  faith. 
Is  not  God  the  incomprehensible  term  for  love? 


CHAPTER  X 


WALKING  home  that  afternoon  through  the 
Krestchatik — the  main  thoroughfare — which  was 
teeming  with  busy  pedestrians,  my  senses  were 
stunned.  All  I  could  hear  was  a  deafening  clamour 
of  bells.  Swiftly  I  traversed  the  long,  beautiful 
streets  as  if  impelled  by  a  cyclone.  Now  and  then 
I  raised  my  eyes  to  a  monument,  a  church,  a  cathe- 
dral, and  instinctively  frowned.  My  brain  seemed 
to  have  become  suddenly  benumbed.  At  the 
junction  of  Podol  with  Pecherskoi  I  stopped  in- 
voluntarily and  stared  like  an  idiot  at  St.  Vladimir's 
monument,  which  is  supposed  to  mark  the  site  of 
a  fountain  at  which  his  children  were  baptised. 
The  high-stuccoed  obelisk  filled  me  with  a  mysteri- 
ous, superstitious  awe,  and  as  my  eyes  rested  on 
the  wooden  crucifix  I  murmured  to  myself  the 
inscription  which  it  bears  in  Hebrew,  Greek,  and 
Latin:  "Jesus  of  Nazareth,  the  King  of  the  Jews." 
I  smiled  and  read  it  again  and  smiled.  A  youngster 
looked  at  me  and  shouted:  "Look  at  him!  He  is 
crazy!" 

Coming  into  my  room,  I  lighted  my  lamp  and  put 
a  few  coals  upon  the  fire,  which  had  all  but  expired. 

239 


240  The  Fugitive 

The  lamplight  was  too  intense,  I  thought,  and  I 
turned  down  the  wick,  leaving  a  scarcely  visible 
glow.  One  thinks  best  in  darkness. 

I  moved  a  chair  near  the  grate,  and  resting  my 
feet  on  the  fender  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  the  glowing 
spots  within.  Listlessly  I  looked  at  the  little 
tongues  of  flame  shooting  forth  here  and  there  and 
battling  for  life  among  the  dead  coals  and  spiritless 
ashes.  I  was  soon  engrossed  in  this  play  of  life  and 
death,  when  suddenly  a  coal  crackled  with  a  short, 
crisp  snap,  like  that  of  agony,  and  rolling  aside  sent 
forth  fiery  lines,  which  soon  formed  the  outlines  of  a 
human  face.  Against  the  black  coals,  which  were 
piled  up  like  a  braided  skein  of  hair,  glittered  two 
bright  spots  like  sparkling  eyes;  there  below  the 
flames  curved  in  the  shape  of  lips  slightly  opened ;  and 
lower  still  two  red  coals  intersected  to  form  a  golden 
crucifix.  The  arms  of  the  crucifix  increased  in 
length;  then  the  face  vanished;  in  another  instant, 
at  the  point  of  the  arms  of  the  cross,  I  beheld  a  face 
without  a  body  or  hands  or  feet.  Then  the  arms 
of  the  human  form  extended  along  the  arms  of  the 
cross,  legs  along  the  foot  of  it,  a  body — and  lo  !  the 
cross  vanished  and  I  beheld  my  own  image. 

I  remember  that  I  gazed  stupidly  at  this  fire- 
drawn  picture  for  a  long  while,  when  another 
spectacle  appeared  before  me. 

The  gorgeous  Vladimir  Cathedral,  one  of  the 
holiest  of  the  "holy  quarter"  of  Kieff,  was  bril- 
liantly illuminated  by  myriads  of  tapers.  The  high- 


The  Burden  of  the  Gross  241 

arched  ceilings  looked  like  a  frosty  winter  sky 
with  innumerable  twinkling  stars.  Hundreds  of 
bells  tolled  sonorously,  clamorously,  and  their 
resounding  echo  made  the  earth  tremble.  How 
loud  they  rang  and  clanged !  The  high  portals 
of  the  cathedral  were  open,  and  people — thousands 
of  them — were  coming  in  with  bowed  heads  and 
solemn  faces.  "A  Jew  is  going  to  be  baptised,"  I 
heard  some  one  whisper. 

It  seemed  to  me  I  stood  before  the  altar,  above 
which  VarnitzofFs  "Madonna  and  Child  "  shone  with 
unusual  brilliancy,  and  a  priest  in  his  clerical  garb 
stood  by  the  baptismal  font  and  held  a  bronze 
crucifix  in  his  hand. 

The  bells  continued  to  chime  while  a  great  crowd 
of  people  were  filling  the  immense  church.  Yet 
everything  about  me  was  so  quiet  that  I  could  almost 
hear  the  movements  of  the  priest's  lips  as  he  solemnly 
rolled  his  eyes  and  murmured  some  prayer.  He 
opened  a  small  hymn-book  and  read  something  from 
it.  My  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  "Madonna  and 
Child"  in  front  of  me,  half  in  admiration,  half  in 
bewilderment. 

Suddenly  the  spectators  were  hushed  as  if  by 
magic,  and  two  apparitions  elbowed  their  way  to 
where  the  priest  and  I  stood.  I  shrank  back  with 
fright  as  the  ghosts  advanced  a  step  and  put  them- 
selves between  me  and  the  font.  One  was  shrouded 
and  wrapped  in  a  Talis,  and  had  his  hands  and  long, 
bony  arms  clasped  over  his  head  as  if  in  despair. 


242  The  Fugitive 

The  other  was  the  ghost  of  a  woman,  tall  and  lean, 
hollow-cheeked,  with  hair  dishevelled,  and  wild 
eyes  that  seemed  about  to  dart  from  their  cavernous 
sockets.  The  priest  checked  himself. 

The  apparitions  came  close  to  me;  their  shrouds 
touched  my  clothes;  I  shuddered.  They  both 
fixed  upon  me  their  ghostly  eyes,  which  expressed 
more  horror  than  words  could  tell.  The  man-ghost 
relaxed  his  clasped  hands  and  motioned  to  the 
right.  I  looked.  The  myriads  of  candles  were 
suddenly  extinguished,  and  palpable  darkness  per- 
vaded the  very  atmosphere  of  the  church.  Sud- 
denly, as  from  the  mouth  of  a  volcano,  a  streak  of 
flame  leaped  from  the  ground,  which  had  been  occu- 
pied by  the  audience.  By  its  light  I  noticed  before 
me  priests  in  robes  like  clergymen  with  big  crucifixes 
in  their  hands  groping  about  in  darkness.  They 
all  came  forward  to  the  flame  and  threw  fagots 
from  a  pile  that  lay  close  by.  The  flame  turned 
into  a  big  blaze.  The  priests  lifted  their  voices  and 
chanted  religious  hymns  above  the  noisy  crackling. 
Their  song  was  melodious,  devotional,  sad.  Groans 
reached  my  ears ;  I  turned.  An  old  man  with  long, 
silvery  beard  and  hair  and  a  beautiful  maiden  with 
arms  clinging  around  his  neck  were  brought  before 
the  fire.  The  maiden's  massive,  luxuriant  black 
hair  mingled  with  the  old  man's  white  beard,  and 
their  tears  streamed  down  together.  They  lifted 
their  eyes  heavenward,  and  the  blaze  lighted  up 
their  contrasting  countenances — his  marred  by  old 


The  Burden  of  the  Gross  243 

age  and  sorrow,  hers  blooming  and  sweet.  The 
patriarch  uttered  in  a  weird  voice,  that  echoed  far 
and  wide:  "Hear,  O  Israel!  God  our  Lord,  God  is 
one."  Then  he  exchanged  kisses  with  the  maiden 
by  his  side,  and  their  tears  flowed  in  one  stream. 
"  Yahweh  is  one,"  both  repeated. 

A  murmur  of  surprise  passed  from  priest  to  priest. 
Then  again  everything  was  hushed.  Solemnly  the 
aged  man  and  the  maiden  were  led  to  the  rising 
flames.  The  fagots  crackled  louder  and  louder, 
the  flames  rose  higher  and  higher,  the  priests  sang 
and  chanted  with  more  devotion,  and  a  weird  voice 
answered:  "Yahweh  is  one." 

A  chill  ran  through  my  frame.  I  turned  my 
face  away  from  this  horrible  sight.  It  had  vanished. 
Again  impenetrable  darkness,  and  then  another 
lurid  scene. 

The  woman-ghost  pointed  to  the  left.  In  place 
of  the  blazing  fagots  there  flowed  a  broad  river,  on 
the  bank  of  which  stood  a  motley  crowd  of  Jews  and 
Jewesses,  gallant  young  men  and  handsome  maidens, 
and  all  looked  terrified  and  wailed  and  wrung  their 
hands.  Some  elderly  people  lay  prostrate  upon  the 
ground  and  wept  bitterly.  Others  rambled  about 
as  if  they  had  lost  their  wits.  Suddenly  all  were 
hushed  by  one  of  the  crowd,  and  all  surrounded 
him,  as  if  to  listen  to  his  advice.  He  said  something 
in  a  fervent,  solemn  tone,  and  as  he  spoke  his  tears 
flowed  profusely.  The  audience  seemed  deeply 
impressed ;  some  nodded  their  heads,  as  if  what  was 


244  The  Fugitive 

said  was  gratifying  to  them;  others  shook  their 
heads  in  negation.  Then  was  heard  the  trampling 
of  hoofs,  like  that  of  a  whole  army  of  cavalry. 
Alarm  and  consternation  were  expressed  in  every 
countenance.  Again  they  flocked  around  the  man 
who  had  addressed  them,  as  if  asking  his  advice. 
His  face  showed  firmness,  his  eyes  expressed  resolu- 
tion, and  he  spoke  again  in  a  determined  tone.  The 
trampling  of  horses  was  heard  louder  and  louder. 
The  whole  crowd  moved  toward  the  sandy  edge, 
which  was  washed  by  the  ebb-tide.  Then  every 
man  drew  from  under  his  coat  a  flashing  two-edged 
knife.  They  waited.  Hush !  The  trampling  of 
hoofs  grew  louder  and  more  distinct — an  army  of 
cavalry  was  in  sight.  Old  men,  women,  maidens, 
little  children  threw  their  heads  back,  and  the  flash- 
ing knives  were  passed  over  their  necks  hurriedly. 
"Quick — they  are  coming!"  they  murmured  im- 
patiently to  one  another.  The  crowd  became 
smaller  and  smaller  and  the  number  of  corpses  with 
ripped  throats  grew  larger  and  larger.  A  long 
stream  of  blood  flowed  into  the  river.  Only  one 
venerable  man,  who  I  thought  resembled  the  gray 
man  in  the  previous  scene,  and  a  young  girl  sur- 
vived. The  bloody  knife  glittered  in  his  hand,  and 
with  the  other  he  embraced  the  maiden.  The 
trampling  of  hoofs  grew  still  louder — a  troop  of 
soldiers  galloping  on  horses  and  with  upright  bayo- 
nets in  their  hands  rapidly  approached.  The  maiden 
glanced  wildly  at  the  troops,  threw  back  her  head, 


The  Burden  of  the  Cross  245 

and  stretched  out  her  neck.  A  tide  of  blood  gushed 
forth;  the  lifeless  body  rolled  over  the  heap  of 
corpses.  The  old  man  raised  his  eyes  heavenward, 
spread  his  arms  in  supplication,  and  shouted, 
"Yahweh  is  one!"  and  passing  the  knife  over  his 
own  throat  he  also  fell  on  the  heap  of  dead  bodies. 

I  opened  my  eyes.  I  found  my  landlady  standing 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  a  trifle  frightened. 

"Mr.  Russakoff,"  she  explained,  "I  wondered 
what  could  have  happened  to  you.  Ten  o'clock,  and 
you  were  not  up  yet.  I  sent  up  my  little  girl,  and 
she  said  the  door  was  unlocked  and  you  were 
asleep  in  your  clothes.  You  have  looked  a  little 
melancholy  of  late,  and  I  thought  God  knows  what 
has  happened  to  you.  You  must  have  had  bad 
dreams,  for  you  were  crying  in  your  sleep  when  I 
came  in.  But  crying  in  sleep  is  a  sign  of  joy." 

I  tried  to  remember  what  had  happened  to  me  the 
night  before,  but  all  that  I  remember  was  that  I 
began  to  undress  myself.  I  thought  of  Katia  and 
of  my  obligation  to  meet  her  this  morning,  but  the 
memory  of  my  dream  chilled  my  brain.  However,  my 
reason  predominated,  and  I  said  to  myself  as  I  pre- 
pared to  go  to  my  beloved,  "  Traume  sind  Schaume" 
and  tried  to  banish  the  vision  from  my  mind.  I 
paced  the  room  with  the  towel  in  my  hands,  wiping 
my  face  and  laughing  at  my  own  superstition. 
"Dreams  are  the  fruit  of  idle  brains,"  I  murmured; 
yet  £he  one  I  had  just  experienced  continued  to 
annoy  me,  and  my  heart  beat  like  a  sledge-hammer. 


246  The  Fugitive 

Finally  I  conquered  my  superstition  and  set  out  to 
visit  Katia. 

She  met  me  in  the  hall,  finger  on  lips.  "S-h! 
Papa  is  waiting  in  the  reception  room,"  she  whis- 
pered. "I  told  him  of  our  engagement,  but  I  did 
not  tell  him  who  you  were.  At  first  he  was  sur- 
prised, but  I  soon  brought  him  around  to  my  way 
of  thinking.  He  said  he  would  have  to  give  us  his 
blessing,  since  I  loved  you  so  much."  She  clasped 
my  arm  tightly,  and  so  we  went  into  the  reception 
room. 

Judge  Bialnick  did  not  look  particularly  pleased, 
but  nevertheless  he  received  me  almost  cordially. 

"Since  Katia  has  chosen  you,  it  must  be  for  the 
best,"  he  said,  placing  one  of  his  trembling  hands 
upon  my  shoulder.  "  I  know  my  Katia  would 
choose  only  the  right  one." 

He  drew  her  within  his  other  arm  and  kissed  her. 

I  shivered  at  his  touch.  The  peculiar  incidents 
of  my  dream  appeared  before  me.  Something 
within  me  wanted  to  throw  his  hand  from  my 
shoulder  and  cry  out  "Murderer!"  But  I  con- 
trolled myself  and  stood  quietly  with  my  eyes 
down  while  he  wished  us  all  happiness. 


CHAPTER  XI 
ON  MY  WAY  TO  NAZARETH  , 

THE  weeks  that  followed  my  betrothal  were  a 
dream  of  happiness.  I  was  with  Katia  a  great 
deal  of  each  day,  which  is  the  best  description  I  can 
give  of  how  blissful  this  period  was.  I  believe  that 
a  lover,  like  a  poet,  is  born,  not  made,  and  I  think 
I  was  born  a  lover.  A  few  months  passed  by, 
during  which  I  came  in  contact  with  nobody  but 
my  beloved  Katia.  I  gave  up  my  lodgings  in  the 
Jewish  quarter  Libedski,  in  order  that  my  connec- 
tions with  the  Jewish  people  might  be  cut  off 
entirely;  and  I  did  not  inform  any  of  my  friends  of 
my  betrothal  nor  where  I  lived,  in  order  to  avoid  all 
argument  or  comment  that  the  step  I  was  about 
to  take  would  call  forth  from  them.  I  cannot  say 
that  I  succeeded  in  dispelling  the  struggling  thoughts 
against  changing  my  faith,  but  I  overcame  them.  I 
fought  hard  and  bitterly,  and  a  constant  battle 
raged  in  my  breast.  But  Katia's  image  helped  me 
to  conquer. 

My  baptism  was  set  for  Sunday,  May  i8th.  I 
did  not  wish  to  have  the  ceremony  performed  pub- 
licly, so  it  had  been  arranged  that  the  baptism 

247 


248  The  Fugitive 

would  take  place  in  the  house  of  Mr.  Bialnick's 
priest. 

The  night  preceding  this  event  I  could  not  sleep 
a  wink.  I  must  confess  that  this  act  of  changing 
beliefs  appeared  to  me  a  comedy  in  which  I  was 
playing  my  part  simply  to  please  Katia.  I  was 
nervous  all  night.  Reminiscences  of  childhood  came 
back  to  me,  and  there  awoke  in  my  breast  a  certain 
yearning  for  Judaism.  To  change  one's  faith ! 
What  a  tragi-comedy !  People  talk  of  it — our 
good  Christian  missionaries  especially — as  if  it  were 
to  cast  off  a  cloak  from  one's  shoulders.  How  little 
they  understand  human  nature!  They  do  not 
realise  that  faith,  if  it  only  exists,  is  rooted  deep  in 
one's  heart,  and  the  one  that  sometimes  extirpates 
it  tears  it  out  often  with  flesh  surrounding  it,  and 
the  wound  keeps  on  bleeding  until  there  is  heart  no 
more. 

I  arose  early  Sunday  morning  with  a  painful 
headache;  my  heart  was  beating  faster  than  usual 
and  I  was  very  nervous.  The  morning  was  partic- 
ularly bright,  and  a  flood  of  warmth  and  sunshine 
streamed  into  my  room.  I  dressed  myself  carefully 
with  trembling  hands,  putting  on  my  best  clothes, 
though  all  the  while  something  was  twinging  at 
my  heart.  "  Superstition,  foolishness,"  I  murmured, 
and  tried  to  think  of  Katia,  but  this  brought  me  no 
solace,  either.  I  opened  several  books,  but  could 
not  read.  I  opened  a  volume  of  Pushkin,  glanced 
at  some  of  his  most  passionate  stanzas,  which  at 


On  My  Way  to  Nazareth  249 

other  times  had  made  my  blood  run  warmer,  but 
now  they  were  cold  and  lifeless  to  me.  I  tried 
to  read  my  favourite  poet,  Heine,  but  none  of  his 
ballads  could  hold  my  mind.  When  we  have  too 
much  to  think  about  we  cannot  think  at  all.  Our 
thoughts  crowd  so  closely  together  that  we  cannot 
fully  grasp  a  single  one. 

I  waited  distractedly  for  the  specified  hour.  I 
drew  my  watch  from  my  pocket,  laid  it  on  the 
table,  and  looked  at  its  face.  How  slow  its  hands 
crept !  I  wound  it  up  every  quarter  of  an  hour, 
and  wondered  how  long  fifteen  minutes  was  and 
how  long  man's  life  was. 

A  clock  in  the  neighbourhood  struck  two;  the 
appointed  hour — the  hour  to  wash  off  my  Judaism 
with  a  little  Christian  water — had  arrived.  I  locked 
the  door  of  my  room,  put  the  key  into  my  pocket 
with  a  nervous  hand,  and  walked  slowly  toward 
the  priest's  house. 

I  had  to  pass  the  Jewish  settlement  Libedski. 
This  caused  me  some  uneasiness.  I  was  ashamed 
of  myself  and  wished  I  could  avoid  it,  but  there 
was  no  other  way. 

An  uproar  broke  upon  my  ears  as  I  approached 
Libedski — the  wild,  boisterous  noise  of  muzhiks  in 
a  skirmish.  But  in  the  Jewish  quarter  on  Sunday ! 
I  wondered,  and  a  sudden  fear  possessed  me. 
People  were  running  from  all  sides,  and  forgetting 
everything  else  I  ran  after  them.  I  soon  found 
myself  in  the  midst  of  a  turbulent  mob,  jostled  and 


250  The  Fugitive 

carried  along  like  a  wisp  of  straw  on  a  flowing 
stream.  The  street  was  filled  with  gesticulating, 
brawling  peasants,  who  gave  vent  to  volleys  of 
oaths  as  only  descendants  of  Tartars  know  how,  and 
rapaciously  attacked  Jewish  shops  and  dwellings. 
Here  and  there  savage-looking  muzhiks,  with  long, 
unkempt,  sandy  hair,  bloodshot  eyes,  and  disordered 
dress,  shouted  and  yelled  through  the  windows  of 
wrecked  houses  like  firemen  fighting  flames.  The 
noises  were  deafening:  the  crash  of  axes  mingled 
with  wild  shrieks  of  victory ;  the  ring  of  crowbars 
echoed  above  cries  of  agony ;  the  clanking  of  hatchets 
drowned  piercing  screams  of  butchered  babes; 
whoops  of  triumph  swallowed  heartrending  groans 
of  despair. 

"  Take  care  ! "  bellowed  a  rioter  from  a  second-story 
window  to  the  excited  crowd  below,  as  he  shoved 
out  a  long  mirror,  which  appeared  in  the  sun  like 
a  sheet  of  quivering  fire.  An  air-splitting  cheer 
went  up  as  the  glass  was  shattered  upon  the  pave- 
ment. 

"Stand  back!"  hoarse  voices  called  from  another 
upper-story  window  as  a  piano  was  forced  through. 
A  second  later  it  struck  the  sidewalk  with  a  resound- 
ing crash. 

"  Catch  it !  Catch  it !"  a  roaring  voice  came  from 
a  third  story,  as  a  screaming  babe  was  swung  in 
the  air  by  its  feet. 

"Ho!  ho!  ho!  ho!"  cheered  hundreds  from  the 
crowd  below.  "Throw  down  the  Jewish  brat !" 


On  My  Way  to  Nazareth  251 

With  the  exultation  of  conquest  the  screeching 
babe  was  flung  high  in  the  air,  like  a  ball,  and  it 
came  down  upon  the  pavement  with  a  splash  of 
blood  that  bespattered  the  bystanders. 

"Comrades,  a  snow  is  coming,"  announced  a 
blood-stained  muzhik,  with  a  boisterous  laugh,  as  a 
large  feather-bed  was  rent  in  twain  and  its  contents 
spread  to  the  winds. 

"Co-o-old!"  jeered  the  crowd,  with  feigned 
chattering  of  teeth. 

"A  Jewish  frost,"  a  lad  wittily  exclaimed. 

"Make  way  for  the  Jew — make  way!" 

The  throng  pressed  back.  Two  ruffians  dragged 
an  old  man  by  his  feet  down  a  high  porch  and  ran 
through  the  streets,  dragging  him  after  them,  the 
Jew's  white  hair  sweeping  the  stones  of  the  pave- 
ment and  painting  their  sharp  edges  red  with 
flowing  blood. 

Some  one  took  notice  of  a  Jewish  drinking-place. 
"Vodka!  Ho!  ho!  ho !— vodka !  Ho!  ho!"  he 
raised  a  cry. 

Like  a  bursting  dam,  the  mob  rushed  upon  the 
dram-shop.  "  Vodka  !  Ho  !  ho  !  ho  ! — vodka  !  Ho  ! 
ho  !  ho  !"  they  yelled,  as  they  attacked  the  shop  and 
battered  its  doors  and  windows. 

In  a  minute  the  building  was  wrecked.  Casks  of 
vodka  were  broken  into  splinters  and  their  con- 
tents spilled.  The  strong  smell  of  liquor  seemed 
to  stimulate  the  rapacious  crowd.  "Ho!  ho! 
vodka  !  vodka  !"  The  thirsty  rioters  fell  upon  the 


2$2  The  Fugitive 

beverage,  fighting  fiercely.  Some  caught  a  mouth- 
ful in  the  hollow  of  their  hands;  many  dipped 
their  caps  into  the  broken  kegs  and  drank  from 
their  dirty  headgear ;  others  pulled  off  their  boots, 
filled  them,  and  swallowed  from  their  filthy  foot- 
wear. 

I  was  stunned — paralysed.  I  could  not  believe 
my  eyes.  This  scene  in  the  holiest  of  Christian 
cities — in  the  place  of  churches  and  cathedrals ! 
"This  must  be  another  lurid  dream,"  I  muttered 
to  myself.  But  it  was  real.  Above  my  head  was  a 
cloud  of  dust  with  flake-like  feathers,  a  vault  of 
smoke  with  flying  sparks;  the  rattling  of  smashed 
windows  rang  in  my  ears;  thousands  of  happy 
Jewish  homes  were  being  wrecked  and  ravished; 
the  air  was  filled  with  cries  of  agony  and  the  clang- 
ing of  the  pillagers'  crowbars;  the  earth  was  red 
with  Jewish  blood. 

And  I  was  on  my  way  to  accept  the  faith  of  these 
two-legged  beasts  !  I  shuddered. 

A  frightful  shriek  made  my  blood  curdle. 

"Help!  Help!"  A  girl  with  dishevelled  black 
hair,  with  her  clothes  torn  into  shreds,  rushed  from 
a  rich  house,  pursued  by  several  rioters. 

"Ah!  ah!  ah!"  Lusty  exclamations  came  from 
all  sides  at  the  appearance  of  the  maiden. 

She  was  caught  and  thrown  to  the  ground, 
struggling  for  her  life,  for  her  honour. 

"Stop!"  I  cried  with  all  my  might,  and  began 
to  pull  away  the  rioters. 


On  My  Way  to  Nazareth  253 

They  gave  me  no  heed. 

"  Christians  !  men  !  beasts — halt ! "  I  shouted  at  the 
top  of  my  voice. 

"Kill  the  Jew!"  a  cry  went  up.  A  number  of 
bystanders  dragged  me  from  the  assailants,  raining 
blows  upon  my  head. 

"Defend  your  down-trodden  people,"  a  voice 
seemed  to  call  from  within  me. 

Clubs,  sticks,  iron  bars  littered  the  ground.  I 
seized  a  sharp  iron  and  with  all  my  strength  ham- 
mered the  heads  bent  over  their  victim.  Some  fell 
bleeding  to  the  ground,  while  others  were  fighting 
to  finish  their  diabolical  deed.  I  brandished  the  iron 
right  and  left,  up  and  down,  furiously.  "Blood!" 
I  muttered,  frantic  with  the  scene  before  me.  I 
craved  to  see  blood,  to  wash  myself  clean  with  blood, 
to  submerge  myself  in  blood.  I  struck  heads  and 
breasts  and  shoulders  with  the  rage  of  a  demon , 
and  blood  gushed  forth  abundantly.  "  Baptise 
your  Jewish  soul  with  blood,"  a  weird-like  voice 
whispered  to  me.  And  I  did  bathe  in  fresh,  hot 
human  blood. 

"  Soldiers  !  Cossacks  !"  rose  a  cry  of  warning,  as 
a  squad  of  horsemen  came  into  the  street. 

"Arrest  that  Jew !"  ordered  some  one  in  a  shout. 

I  turned  and  saw  the  officer  whom  I  had  met  at 
Bialnick's  pointing  at  me. 

"Stop  that  Jew!"  he  commanded  again.  But 
before  any  one  could  stop  me  I  fled  to  the  next 
street. 


2 S4  The  Fugitive 

There  the  fight  was  fiercer.  Feathers  and 
leaves  of  books  filled  the  air;  porches  and  balco- 
nies fell  with  explosive  roaring;  massive  furniture 
came  down  upon  the  pavement  with  thunder-like 
crashes;  on  every  side  were  mangled  babes, 
mutilated  old  Jewish  women,  aged  Jews  with 
crushed  limbs  and  fractured  skulls,  lacerated  girls 
fighting  for  their  honour.  Here  and  there 
fashionably  dressed  Christian  women  bent  down 
to  pick  up  a  piece  of  precious  jewelry  or  a  trinket 
which  the  rioters  had  dropped  in  their  wild  ex- 
citement. 

I  stopped  before  the  synagogue.  A  gang  of  brutes 
were  forcing  an  entrance  into  the  house  of  worship. 
Its  doors  were  soon  stormed,  and  the  crowd  burst 
furiously  in.  I  pressed  in  after  them.  Before  the 
ark  that  contained  scrolls  of  the  Torah — the  book 
that  inspired  prophets  and  poets  and  sages — stood 
an  old  Jew  wrapped  in  a  Talis,  his  arms  spread 
across  its  portals  and  begging  mercifully: 

"Kill  me,  but  save  the  holy  Torah." 

"Take  him  to  the  gallery!"  the  one  who  acted 
as  leader  commanded. 

With  a  jubilant  shout  the  struggling  old  man 
was  raised  in  the  air  and  carried  up  to  the  high 
gallery. 

"Throw  him  down!"  demanded  the  mob. 

"Save  the  Torah— the  holy  Torah,"  faintly 
moaned  the  victim. 

"The    holy    Torah— the    holy    Torah!"    mocked 


On  My  Way  to  Nazareth  255 

the  rioters;  and  with  a  heavy  thud  the  martyr's 
body  struck  the  floor. 

I  remembered  the  iron  in  my  hand.  "  Blood ! 
blood !  blood !"  I  muttered  to  myself  as  the  violators 
began  to  tear  the  scrolls  of  the  Torah  in  strips  and 
trample  the  parchment  under  foot.  My  iron  rose 
and  fell  mercilessly.  I  cleared  my  way  until  I 
reached  the  door.  Finding  myself  outside,  I  con- 
tinued the  slaughter.  But  suddenly  my  eyes 
dimmed,  I  became  dizzy,  and  a  hot  current  passed 
through  my  body.  The  iron  dropped  from  my 
clasp  and  I  raised  my  hand  to  my  forehead.  Some- 
thing like  a  drop  of  boiling  water  dripped  down 
my  nose.  I  wiped  it  away,  but  it  dripped  faster 
and  faster.  Tumult,  confusion,  shrieking,  scream- 
ing, begging,  imploring  ... 


CHAPTER  XII 
A  REACTION 

"WHERE  am  I?"  were  the  first  words  I  uttered 
when  I  opened  my  eyes  after  the  events  described 
in  the  last  chapter. 

A  young  lady  who  stood  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room  came  quickly  up  to  me  and  murmured: 
"He  is  gaining  consciousness."  Her  face  seemed 
familiar,  yet  I  could  not  recall  her. 

"Where  am  I?"  I  repeated. 

"Be  at  ease,  Mr.  Russakoff.  You  are  among 
friends." 

I  looked  around.  The  room  was  not  mine.  My 
book-case  and  desk  were  missing,  and  there  were 
three  windows  here,  while  mine  had  only  two.  On 
a  small  table  near  the  bed  on  which  I  lay  stood 
little  flasks  of  medicine.  I  must  have  been  sick,  I 
thought. 

I  tried  to  collect  my  thoughts,  but  my  memory 
was  absolutely  blank.  I  looked  now  at  the  woman, 
now  at  the  drugs,  but  soon  I  felt  a  pain  in  my  head 
and  became  half-unconscious.  Flying  stones,  babes 
hurled  in  the  air,  a  sweet-faced  young  girl  in  a  blue 
dress  with  a  golden  crucifix  dangling  over  her 
bosom,  fire,  smoke,  blood — a  lot  of  blood — a  big 

256 


A  Reaction  257 

pool  in  which  I  swam  up  to  my  neck — and  all  was 
blank  again. 

The  next  time  I  opened  my  eyes  I  found  Mr. 
Levinski  and  his  wife — I  now  recognised  the  young 
woman  I  had  seen  before — seated  at  my  side.  She 
was  standing  with  a  small  flask  and  a  teaspoon  in 
her  hand. 

"How  do  you  feel,  Mr.  Russakoff?"  Levinski 
asked. 

"I  feel  no  pain,"  I  answered.  "What  happened 
to  me?  Tell  me,  please." 

"I'll  tell  you  when  you  get  a  little  stronger.  The 
physician  forbade  us  to  disturb  you  in  the  least." 

His  wife  gave  me  a  spoonful  of  the  liquid  from 
the  flask.  I  lay  there  for  some  time,  gazing  at  the 
ceiling,  and  trying  to  recall  what  had  occurred 
before  I  fell  sick. 

Next  morning  I  felt  stronger  and  again  asked 
Levinski  to  tell  me  what  had  happened. 

"Can't  you  wait  a  little  longer?"  he  coaxed  me. 

"But  the  anxiety  makes  me  more  restless,"  I 
urged  him. 

"Well,"  he  said,  and  sighed,  "you  will  recall 
the  riot  in  the  Jewish  quarter  about  two  months 
ago  [two  months,  did  he  say?],  on  May  1 8th  [my 
mind  began  to  clear  up].  I  was  invited  to  dinner 
that  day  with  our  editor-in-chief,  and  we  were 
leisurely  enjoying  our  time  over  a  cigar  when 
the  tumult  of  the  rioters  reached  us.  The  first 
thing  that  occurred  to  my  mind  was  the  possible 


258  The  Fugitive 

danger  of  my  uncle  and  his  daughter,  who  lived 
in  Libedski.  He  kept  a  jewelry  store  and  lived 
above  it.  When  I  reached  the  place  I  found 
everything  destroyed  and  plundered,  and  in  the 
gutter  in  front  of  it  I  noticed  you  lying  senseless 
and  bleeding  [my  memory  now  became  clearer]. 
Fortunately,  the  soldiers  and  officers,  who  at  first 
helped  the  mob  to  plunder  and  rob,  kept  them  back 
now.  Doctor  Mandel,  a  friend  of  mine,  came  up  with 
an  ambulance.  I  left  you  in  his  care  and  went  in 
search  of  my  uncle  and  his  daughter.  I  found  the 
girl  in  an  unconscious  condition  in  the  hallway." 
Levinski  put  his  handkerchief  to  his  face,  but  his 
voice  betrayed  that  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes. 

"You  can  imagine  my  feelings  when  I  looked  at 
my  cousin  thus  violated.  Through  the  assistance  of 
Doctor  Mandel  she  gained  consciousness  and  began 
to  cry  for  her  father.  This  reminded  me  of  my 
uncle,  and  we  went  to  search  for  him.  We  looked 
through  the  house,  but  he  was  not  there.  The 
furniture  was  demolished,  and  his  books — for  he  had 
a  valuable  library — were  stolen  and  some  were  torn 
leaf  from  leaf.  Finally  we  found  him  lying  in  the 
back  yard  with  a  fractured  skull.  He  had  died  long 
before  we  had  arrived. 

"  I  could  see  that  the  girl's  condition  was  critical. 
When  she  gained  consciousness  she  told  how  her 
father  had  met  his  fate.  Learning  that  the  mob  was 
plundering  downstairs,  they  locked  themselves  in  a 
dark  room  on  the  second  floor,  hoping  to  save 


A  Reaction  259 

their  lives.  But  after  the  mob  had  finished  their 
diabolical  work  downstairs  they  broke  into  the  rooms 
upstairs  and  attacked  the  door  of  the  room  where 
they  were  hidden.  It  was  forced  open  and  the 
girl  was  assaulted.  She  and  her  father  were  armed 
with  knives,  but  what  could  weak  creatures  like 
them  do?" 

Levinski  paused  here  and  openly  broke  into 
tears. 

"The  ravagers  succeeded  in  wresting  the  poor 
child  from  her  father's  arms,  and  violated  her  while 
he  was  wrestling  with  the  rioters  who  held  him  back. 
Then  they  flung  him  through  the  window,  and  the 
girl  succeeded  in  rushing  downstairs.  But  they 
caught  her  in  the  hallway  and  attacked  her 
again." 

A  vague  recollection  of  the  situation  in  which  I 
found  the  girl  was  now  coming  back  to  me. 

"How  is  the  girl?"  I  asked  after  a  short  pause. 

"She  stabbed  herself  in  the  abdomen  while  being 
ravished,  and  she  died  from  the  wound  the  next 
day,"  Levinski  said,  and  sobbed  again. 

After  a  while  he  said  to  me:  "  Where  in  the  world 
did  you  secrete  yourself  after  Razovski's  arrest  ?  I 
inquired  for  you  at  your  old  lodgings,  but  was 
informed  that  you  had  moved.  I  went  around 
to  most  of  your  friends,  but  none  of  them  seemed  to 
know  where  you  had  gone.  I  wrote  to  the  publisher 
of  the  magazine  to  which  you  had  contributed,  but 
he  replied  that  he  had  heard  nothing  of  you  for 


260  The  Fugitive 

some  time.  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  you 
had  fallen  into  the  snares  of  the  police." 

This  brought  to  my  mind  my  engagement  to 
Katia,  and  her  sweet  face  came  before  my  eyes. 
At  this  recollection  I  grew  dizzy. 

"Do  you  feel  any  pain?"  Levinski  asked  me 
anxiously. 

"None,"  I  said.  "I  will  tell  you  of  my  disap- 
pearance some  time  when  I  am  stronger.  But  tell 
me,  how  did  the  riot  start?" 

"After  the  riot  broke  out  in  Yeliswetgrad,  if  you 
remember  that,  a  rumour  was  circulated  that  a 
similar  outbreak  was  going  to  take  place  here 
on  May  3d.  We  sent  a  delegation  to  the 
Mayor  and  asked  him  to  station  soldiers  in  the 
most  thickly  populated  Jewish  streets,  but  he 
bluntly  replied:  '  I  would  not  trouble  the  soldiers 
for  a  pack  of  Jews.'  However,  the  riot  did  not 
occur  on  the  day  expected,  but  on  the  next  Sunday. 

"  I  was  a  dreamer.  We  were  all  dreamers  who 
thought  we  had  become  citizens  of  Russia.  Yes, 
we  are  only  stepchildren  in  every  country,  after  all, 
and  we  very  seldom  find  a  kind-hearted  stepmother 
to  take  care  of  us.  Always  sneered  at,  scolded, 
cursed,  persecuted,  beaten,  whether  we  commit  a 
fault  or  achieve  the  heroic.  To  please  the  Christian 
nations,  we  ought  to,  as  Fichte  says,  cut  off  our 
Jewish  heads  and  put  on  Christian  ones;  and  I 
scarcely  believe  even  that  would  be  sufficient. 

"Yes,  I  was  dreaming.     But  the  stones  hurled  at 


A  Reaction  261 

the  windows  of  the  Jewish  quarter,  the  burning 
roofs  over  the  heads  of  my  brethren,  the  cry  of 
agony  of  the  wretched  dwellers  of  Libedski — these 
awakened  me.  The  dream  is  over." 

He  sat  in  gloomy  silence  for  a  minute,  then  broke 
out  bitterly:  "In  what  deception  and  delusion  I 
have  lived  for  the  past  ten  years !  I  dreamed  that 
Russia  was  my  fatherland;  I  fancied  that  we  also 
had  a  share  in  her  culture  and  progress ;  I  imagined 
that  bigotry  and  superstition  had  died  out  with  the 
last  generation;  I  persuaded  myself  that  Russia 
would  give  us  equal  rights  if  we  would  only  seek 
for  them.  Had  I  no  cause  to  think  so  ?  Was  there 
no  Jewish  blood  shed  on  the  battle-field  of  Plevna  ? 
Is  not  the  State  treasury  filled  with  gold  from  the 
burdensome  taxes  imposed  upon  our  race?  Have 
we  not  contributed  our  share  to  her  literature  ? 
Did  we  not  give  them  a  Rubenstein,  a  pianist  and 
composer  the  semibarbaric  people  would  never 
have  produced?  Is  not  the  greatest  Russian 
sculptor,  of  whom  his  stepmother  is  at  present  so 
boastful — is  not  he  a  Jew?  These  thoughts  made 
me  feel  secure,  and  I  went  to  sleep  and  dreamed  of 
a  golden  age." 

He  spoke  furiously ;  his  eyes  flashed  through  their 
tears. 

"Yes,  I  awoke!  Russia  is  my  fatherland  no 
longer.  I  can't  stay  in  this  country.  I  expect  to 
leave  Europe  and  all  Christian  nations  forever. 
The  nations  that  teach  love  in  the  name  of  the 


262  The  Fugitive 

crucified  Jew  do  not  practise  it.  They  never 
practise  it.  The  Crusaders,  the  auto-da-fe,  the 
Russian  knout,  the  German  press — they  are  all 
pursuing  the  same  end  in  the  name  of  Christian 
brotherhood.  I  shall  flee  to  my  Uncle  Ishmael  and 
seek  protection  under  him.  He  does  not  preach 
much,  and  this  leaves  him  more  time  to  practise." 

"I  do  not  understand  you,"  I  interrupted  him. 
"Do  you  intend  to  go  to  Turkey?" 

"  You  have  been  ill  for  the  last  few  months,  so  you 
do  not  know  what  is  going  on  among  us  now.  There 
is  a  movement  among  the  Jews  to  go  back  and 
colonise  Palestine.  A  great  number  of  Jewish 
students  of  Kieff  and  Kharkoff  have  abandoned 
their  studies  and  will  sail  in  a  few  weeks  for  Pales- 
tine. I  subscribed  to  this  league,  too.  Enough 
of  this  European  civilisation  !  Back  to  our  ancient 
fatherland,  where  our  prophets  saw  celestial  visions 
and  preached  peace;  where  David  poured  forth  his 
heavenly  psalms ;  where  the  earth  was  once  saturated 
with  the  blood  of  the  Maccabeans;  where  the 
precious  relics  of  our  history  are  entombed.  I 
shall  be  happy  to  put  on  the  Arab's  robe  and 
turban  and  till  the  ground  of  my  ancestors.  No 
more  dreaming — I  have  awakened  at  last." 

Thus  spoke  Levinski,  who  had  been  an  ardent 
believer  in  assimilation  two  months  before.  I  could 
hardly  believe  my  ears;  I  thought  I  must  be  still 
delirious. 

I    stared    at  him  and  murmured:    "Palestine — 


A  Reaction  263 

Palestine.     So  you  are  dreaming  again.     You  com- 
mence to  believe  in  the  Messiah." 

"No,  no;  this  is  no  dream.  I  do  not  believe  in 
the  Messiah,  as  some  of  the  narrow-minded  Jews  do 
—in  one  who  will  rush  down  from  heaven  riding  on 
a  white  ass  and  proclaim  his  lordship;  but  I  do 
believe  in  a  political  Messiah  who  will  emancipate 
the  Jews.  History  points  clearly  in  that  direction. 
Neither  fire  nor  sword,  neither  the  poignant  pen  nor 
the  barbaric  knout  could  annihilate  the  indestructi- 
ble Jew.  Whenever  any  grave  disaster  has  happened 
to  Israel,  relief  has  come  from  some  place.  In 
Egypt,  Moses  arose;  later,  when  the  entire  ex- 
termination of  the  race  was  threatened,  the  Macca- 
bees sprang  up ;  in  the  same  year  that  the  Jews  were 
expelled  from  Spain,  Columbus,  as  if  through  the 
dispensation  of  Providence,  discovered  America — 
a  place  of  refuge  for  the  ever-persecuted  race. 
Can  any  one  be  blind  to  facts?  Can  any  skeptic 
deny  the  providential  course  of  history?  However 
rational  we  might  be,  can  we  for  a  moment  doubt 
that  we  are  the  chosen  people  of  God?  Can  any 
other  nation,  modern  or  ancient,  boast  of  such  a 
glorious  record  as  that  of  Israel  ?  Is  it  not  nobler  to 
be  downtrodden  than  to  tread  upon  others  ?  Is  it 
not  more  heroic  to  be  burned  at  the  stake  than  to 
add  fagots  to  the  blaze?  Our  lot  has  always  been 
that  of  martyrs.  We  witnessed  the  rise  and  down- 
fall of  Babylon;  we  outlived  artistic  Greece;  we 
survived  the  Roman  warriors;  we  shall  yet  see  the 


264  The  Fugitive 

downfall  of  Spain;  and  we  shall  yet  experience  the 
collapse  of  all  nations  that  inhumanly  oppress  us. 
You  stare  at  me,  Mr.  Russakoff;  you  can  hardly 
believe  your  ears ;  but  it  is  the  same  Levinski  that  is 
talking  to  you.  I  was  dreaming;  I  have  awakened 
at  last." 

Thus  the  enthusiast  indulged  in  new,  pleasant 
dreams.  I  listened  in  amazement,  and  wondered 
what  a  productive  race  of  dreamers  Israel  is  ! 

As  soon  as  I  was  strong  enough  to  walk  about  the 
house  I  began  to  worry  about  the  future.  The 
remembrance  of  Katia  was  as  sweet  as  ever  to  me, 
but  with  the  thought  of  her  came  the  thought  of 
baptism,  and  that  prostrated  my  mind.  My  con- 
science and  self-esteem  as  a  born  Jew  aroused  by 
the  recent  massacre  revolted  against  my  love.  I 
hesitated  whether  or  not  to  go  back  to  her. 

How  strangely  people  often  act !  What  would 
I  not  have  done  for  Katia's  sake  two  months  before  ? 
And  now,  when  my  road  was  so  smooth,  without 
the  least  obstacle,  I  thought  of  giving  up  the  loveliest 
and  most  charming  girl  on  account  of  a  little  cold 
water.  True,  the  world  calls  it  changing  one's 
faith,  but  is  it  not  in  reality  only  deceiving  a  narrow- 
minded  priest?  True,  the  world  condemns  and 
despises  one  who  goes  through  this  ceremony 
without  being  in  earnest  about  it,  but  do  not  men  in 
more  ways  than  this  deceive  others  in  the  pursuits 
of  life?  Do  not  writers  every  day,  in  newspapers, 
magazines,  and  voluminous  books,  misrepresent 


A  Reaction  265 

themselves  and  express  ideas  they  do  not  themselves 
believe  ?  Do  not  politicians  who  are  respected  and 
honoured  in  our  community,  and  whose  praises  are 
perpetuated  in  verse — do  not  these  political  schemers 
advocate  principles  solely  for  their  own  benefit? 
What  difference  is  there  between  one  who  mis- 
represents his  ideas  or  belief  for  a  million, 
and  the  poor  man,  whose  stomach  pains  from 
hunger,  who  lets  himself  be  sprinkled  with  a  little 
cold  water  by  some  priest  for  a  few  dollars  ?  Is  not 
love  the  most  divine  and  the  purest  sentiment  that 
can  prompt  one  to  deceive  a  bigoted  priest?  In 
doing  this  one  does  not  trifle  with  God,  but  merely 
exposes  a  foolish  priest  to  the  ridicule  of  the  wise. 
Never  in  his  life  did  the  witty  Heine  play  a  greater 
satirical  prank  on  Christendom  than  by  his  baptism. 

Finally  I  decided  to  go  and  see  Katia.  I  inquired 
of  Levinski,  who  was  on  friendly  terms  with  Judge 
Bialnick,  about  the  latter. 

"Judge  Bialnick?"  he  said.  "No  one  knows 
where  he  is." 

"What  has  happened  to  him?" 

"He  was  arrested  immediately  after  the  riots 
and " 

"And  was  sent  to  Siberia?"  I  struck  in  fearfully. 

"No;  he  managed  to  escape,  and  I  was  told  he 
is  with  his  daughter  either  in  France  or  Switzer- 
land." 


CHAPTER  XIII 
I  BID  FAREWELL  TO  MY  FATHERLAND 

IN  a  short  time  I  recovered  entirely  from  my 
illness;  only  a  scar  across  my  forehead  and  right 
eye  was  left  to  remind  me  of  my  injuries.  I 
was  low-spirited  most  of  the  time,  and  stayed 
in  the  Jewish  settlement.  "The  stone  which  I 
recently  despised  became  the  headstone  of  the 
corner."  I  felt  like  the  prodigal  son  returned  to 
his  father.  Again  there  was  a  yearning  in  my 
heart  for  the  Ghetto,  surrounded  by  high,  dingy 
walls,  with  a  heavy  gate;  again  there  was  in  my 
heart  a  craving  desire  for  the  Beth-Hamedrash,  with 
its  hot  oven,  by  which  I  could  sit  among  my  honest 
people  and  brood  over  a  folio  of  Talmud.  I  also 
had  dreamed,  for  a  certainty.  And  that  day  had 
awakened  me,  too. 

In  the  beginning  of  August — or,  according  to  the 
Jewish  calendar,  the  night  of  Tisha-B'Ab — I  strolled 
sadly,  with  a  drooped  head,  through  the  Jewish 
quarter.  Old-fashioned  Jews  with  long  beards  and 
scrawny  faces,  and  stooped  Jewesses  with  tears  on 
their  wrinkled  cheeks,  wended  their  course  toward 
the  synagogue.  I  had  not  been  in  a  synagogue 
for  nearly  six  years,  and  now  something  like  an 

266 


I  Bid  Farewell  to  My  Fatherland  267 

invisible  string,  attached  somewhere  within  me, 
drew  me  close  to  my  brethren,  from  whom  I  had  so 
long  kept  at  a  distance. 

The  synagogue  was  full.  The  benches  of  the 
house  of  worship  were  piled  up  in  a  corner,  and  in 
lieu  of  them  boards  were  laid  on  the  floor.  Upon 
these  boards  the  whole  congregation  sat,  shoeless. 
Each  one  held  a  tallow  candle  that  shed  a  dim  light 
over  their  Kinos  (Book  of  Lamentations).  It  was 
not  illumined  except  by  these  candles,  which 
appeared  like  so  many  blinking  stars. 

That  Tisha-B'Ab  the  persecuted  people  had  an 
abundance  of  tears  to  shed.  The  third  temple — 
the  temple  of  hope — was  destroyed.  There  were 
strange  visitors  in  the  congregation  that  night — 
doctors,  lawyers,  professors,  university  and  gym- 
nasium students  in  their  fine  uniforms  and  with 
cockades  in  their  hats,  all  of  whom  had  probably 
not  visited  a  synagogue  since  their  early  childhood. 

Side  by  side  sat  the  bearded  orthodox  Jew  and 
the  clean-shaven  lawyer  and  perfumed  student, 
reading  Jeremiah's  "Lamentations"  and  shedding 
bitter  tears  in  commemoration  of  the  destruction  of 
their  nationality  thousands  of  years  ago. 

I  took  off  my  shoes  and  joined  the  weeping 
chorus.  Everybody  cried — men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren— like  vagrant  orphans  who  bewailed  their 
parents.  My  eyes  were  blurred  with  tears.  I 
could  follow  the  Kinos  no  further.  The  letters 
in  the  book  before  me  were  run  together  in  a  large 


268  The  Fugitive 

inky  blot,  and  the  light  of  the  candles  around  me 
shone  on  my  tearful  eyes  like  numberless  beams 
at  sunrise. 

The  Chazan,  a  gray  old  man,  burst  into  a  tearful 
voice:  "She  dwelleth  among  the  heathen;  she 
findeth  no  rest;  all  her  persecutors  overtook  her 
between  two  streets." 

They  were  the  words  of  the  prophet  more  than 
two  thousand  years  ago.  They  rang  in  my  ears 
as  if  Jeremiah  were  sitting  to-day  by  the  ruins  of 
Jerusalem  pouring  forth  lamentation  for  the  bitter 
lot  of  his  people.  Thoughts  and  images  crowded 
my  mind.  Soon  the  whole  congregation,  with  the 
burning  candles,  became  to  .my  eyes  a  vast  black 
spot  studded  with  golden  nails.  The  hundreds  of 
wailing  voices  sounded  to  me  like  a  waterfall  rolling 
over  a  dam  and  opposed  by  a  wailing  wind.  I 
gazed  abstractedly  until  the  Chazan  wakened  me 
again.  "They  ravished  the  women  in  Zion  and 
the  maidens  in  the  city  of  Judah — the  crown  is 
fallen  from  our  heads;  woe  unto  us  that  we  have 
sinned !  For  this  our  heart  is  faint,  for  these 
things  our  eyes  are  dim." 

These  words  opened  fresh  wounds  in  the  breasts 
of  the  audience.  The  whole  congregation  broke 
into  one  great  groan  that  rose  higher  and  higher, 
till  it  seemed  that  the  very  walls  of  the  synagogue 
moaned  in  sympathy  with  my  afflicted  people. 

About  a  week    later   the    Zion    League,    which 


I  Bid  Farewell  to  My  Fatherland  269 

consisted  of  a  large  number  of  students,  young 
doctors  and  lawyers,  journalists  and  engineers, 
left  for  Palestine  to  establish  colonies  there  and 
prepare  for  the  coming  Messiah. 

I,  however,  decided  to  try  some  country  of  western 
Europe.  I  packed  up  my  belongings,  and  in  the  same 
month  bade  farewell  to  the  land  that  gave  me  life 
and  sought  to  extinguish  it.  While  I  sat  in  the 
car  that  crossed  the  Russian  frontier,  and  looked 
without,  thick  volumes  of  smoke  issued  from  the; 
engine-stack  and  rolled  over  the  vast  stretches  of 
stubble-fields  and  stacks  of  reaped  rye,  wheat,  and 
straw.  I  looked  gloomily  through  the  car- window 
as  we  traversed  woods  and  forests,  flying  swiftly 
across  bridges,  and  allowing  me  only  a  glimpse  of 
the  waters  below  and  of  the  broad  expanse  of 
Russian  territory.  I  gazed  wistfully  at  the  varying 
panorama  through  which  I  sped,  and  my  heart 
throbbed  wildly  at  the  thought  that  it  might  be 
my  last  look  at  Russia.  No  matter  how  cruelly  I 
had  been  treated  in  that  land,  it  was  the  land  in 
which  I  roamed  barefoot  in  my  childhood,  and  was 
ever  to  be  remembered  with  yearning. 

As  the  train  hurried  toward  the  German  frontier 
I  continued  to  look  through  the  window,  which  was 
frequently  clouded  with  a  blast  of  black  smoke, 
and  I  thought  of  Litwinoff,  one  of  TurgeniefFs 
creations:  "All  is  but  smoke  and  vapour;  every- 
thing is  constantly  changing;  one  shape  dissolves 
itself  into  another,  one  event  succeeds  another,  but 


270  The  Fugitive 

in  reality  everything  remains  the  same.  There  is 
much  stir  and  confusion,  but  all  these  clouds  vanish 
at  last  without  leaving  any  trace,  without  having 
accomplished  anything.  The  winds  change  their 
direction ;  they  pass  to  the  other  side  and  there 
continue  their  feverish  and  fruitless  motion." 

"Smoke,  smoke — smoke  and  vapour,"  I  mut- 
tered to  myself.  "Smoke,  smoke,  and  nothing  but 
smoke  and  vapour," 


BOOK  THE  THIRD 
LIBERTY 


"  And  strangers  shall  stand  and  feed  their  flocks,  and  the 
sons  of  the  alien  shall  be  your  ploughman  and  your  vine- 
dresser."— ISAIAH. 


CHAPTER  I 
IN  THE  LAND  OF  LIBERTY 

LIVERY  person's  life  would  make  an  interesting 
story  if  the  narrator  only  knew  which  por- 
tions to  tell  and  which  to  omit.  In  this  truism  will 
be  found  my  reason  for  omitting  a  detailed  account 
of  the  two  years  following  my  departure  from  my 
native  soil.  Like  a  restless  spirit  I  wandered  from 
city  to  city,  from  country  to  country,  with  no  definite 
purpose  in  view.  I  travelled  through  Germany, 
France,  Switzerland,  Italy,  England.  I  tried  hard 
to  forget  the  past — root  it  out  of  my  memory — but 
one  face  remained  ever  vivid  before  me.  I  searched, 
I  inquired,  but  I  sought  in  vain  for  my  heart's 
desire. 

One  fine  frosty  morning  found  me  on  the  deck  of 
a  steamer  gently  beating  the  waves  of  New  York 
Bay  and  slowly  moving  toward  the  land  of  liberty. 
The  deck  was  spotted  with  patches  of  ice,  which 
cracked  under  the  tread  of  the  throng  of  steerage 
passengers  as  they  moved  about  impatiently,  shiver- 
ing with  cold.  My  fellow  immigrants  were  a  quaint 
and  picturesque  mixture  of  people — blond,  flabby 
Germans;  dark  Jews  with  faces  that  bespoke  star- 
vation; coarse,  swarthy  Slavonians;  delicate,  dark- 

273 


274  The  Fugitive 

brown  Frenchmen;  mothers  with  babes  at  their 
breasts  or  with  toddling  youngsters  clinging  to 
their  skirts.  There  was  a  large  number  of  Russian 
Jews  who  had  fled  from  the  yoke  of  tyranny  and 
were  now  coming  to  kiss  the  soil  of  liberty.  There 
were  all  sorts  of  Russian  Jews — old,  stooped,  hoary 
Jews,  with  shaggy  beards  and  shabby  garments; 
handsomely  built  students  with  nothing  Jewish 
about  them  but  thoughtful  eyes  and  the  indellible 
stamp  of  persecution;  faded,  decrepit,  heavily 
bewigged  Jewesses,  with  faces  that  told  tragic 
tales;  and  healthy,  cheerful  young  maidens,  who 
probably  expected  to  find  suitors  in  America — 
all  coming  to  the  Promised  Land  with  hungry 
stomachs,  empty  pockets,  and  heads  full  of  hopes 
and  projects. 

As  the  steamer  approached  Castle  Garden,  the 
passengers,  with  bundles  in  their  hands,  anxiously 
gazed  toward  the  shore.  The  impatience  of  the 
crowd  grew  every  moment.  The  climax  of  their 
excitement  was  reached  when  the  boat  was  being 
moored.  Handkerchiefs  were  waved  from  the  dock, 
and  those  on  deck  who  recognised  friends  among 
the  waiting  crowd  exchanged  cries  of  greeting  with 
them.  Leaning  against  the  railing,  my  head  full 
of  strange  thoughts,  I  looked  jealously  at  my  fellow 
passengers.  Everybody  came  to  acquaintances, 
friends,  relations,  but  there  was  nobody  to  receive 
me — nobody  to  send  me  a  shout  of  welcome.  I  was 
again  alone,  again  a  vagrant  orphan  without  a 


In  the  Land  of  Liberty  275 

friend  in  the  world.  I  thrust  my  hands  into  my 
pockets — I  had  only  six  dollars  and  thirty-two  cents. 

After  a  few  minutes  we  began  to  pour  out  of  the 
steamer.  Leaving  the  barge  office,  I  stood  in  the 
street  with  my  knapsack  in  my  hand.  "Where 
shall  I  go?"  I  asked  myself.  I  knew  no  one  in  the 
new  land,  and  my  knowledge  of  English,  though 
not  very  meager,  was  not  quite  sufficient  to  make 
me  feel  at  home.  After  short  reflection  I  decided 
to  repair  to  the  Jewish  quarter.  Instinctively  I 
sought  the  poor  Jewish  settlement  near  the  heart 
of  the  city,  in  the  main  business  portion. 

I  inquired  in  the  best  English  I  could  command 
for  the  quarter,  but  every  one  I  accosted  answered 
as  he  hurried  on:  "Go  straight  ahead  until  you 
reach  it."  Some  other  Jewish  immigrants,  with 
Americanised  friends  who  had  come  to  receive 
them,  walked  ahead  of  me,  so  I  surmised  their 
destination  must  be  the  same  as  mine,  and  I  sur- 
rendered myself  to  their  guidance. 

Dirty  urchins  ran  hooting  after  the  Jewish 
" greenhorns,"  shouting  "  Sheeny,"  "  Solomon  Ikey," 
and  other  epithets,  which  I  divined  from  the 
tone  and  action  of  the  youngsters  to  be  intended 
for  insults.  Stones  were  hurled  at  us ;  one  dropped 
in  front  of  me.  "  I  must  be  dreaming  of  Kieff," 
I  thought  with  a  shudder.  But  it  was  in  the  great 
city  of  New  York — the  metropolis  of  the  land  of 
liberty.  I  tried  to  solace  myself  with  the  thought 
that  the  little  gamins  were  mocking  the  immigrants 


276  The  Fugitive 

because  of  their  foreign  costumes  and  appearance, 
but  I  wondered  why  the  people  across  the  street, 
the  Germans  and  the  Slavonians,  just  as  shabby  as 
the  poor  Jews,  were  not  molested. 

That  was  my  first  discouragement.  I  slackened 
my  pace  as  if  regretting  my  step,  and  walked  slowly, 
absorbed  in  new  anxieties. 

However,  there  was  now  no  turning  back.  At 
length  I  found  myself  in  the  Jewish  settlement.  I 
then  had  no  further  need  for  inquiry.  The  muddy, 
murky,  filthy  streets;  the  squalid  tenement  blocks, 
with  bedclothes  on  fire-escapes  and  various  Hebrew 
signs  dangling  beneath  them;  stooped  and  sallow- 
faced  creatures  with  a  "hurry-up"  expression  in 
every  feature ;  the  fruit-sellers  and  fishmongers  and 
hawkers  of  suspenders  and  handkerchiefs  crying 
their  merchandise — all  these  proclaimed  to  me  that 
I  had  arrived  in  a  new  Ghetto.  It  reminded  me  of 
Vilno.  It  was  Friday,  too,  I  remembered. 

I  wandered  about  aimlessly  for  an  hour  or  more, 
and  finally  I  reached  the  corner  of  Hester  and 
Ludlow  Streets.  The  scene  made  me  pause. 

There  were  thousands  of  people,  and  everybody 
was  selling  something.  The  sidewalks,  or  the 
planks  that  served  as  sidewalks,  were  decayed; 
there  might  have  been  a  pavement  years  ago,  but 
now  the  thoroughfare  was  slushy,  and  there  was  a 
sound  like  kneading  dough  as  the  crowd  jostled 
hither  and  thither.  Some  blessed  and  some  cursed, 
some  laughed  and  some  cried,  some  shrieked  and 


In  the  Land  of  Liberty  277 

some  grunted — but  all  in  a  brotherly  and  frank 
manner.  What  a  variety  of  voices  !  Small,  piping, 
baby  voices;  healthy,  sweet  contralto  voices;  sour, 
quarrelling  voices;  soft,  plaintive  voices;  harsh, 
guttural,  disagreeable  voices.  What  types  of  faces 
and  what  fashions  of  dress !  Aged,  decrepit  Jews 
with  maps  of  Jerusalem  (at  the  time  of  the  destruc- 
tion) on  their  faces;  fresh,  blooming  faces  marred 
only  by  merciless  poverty  and  suffering;  worn-out 
women  with  wrinkled  cheeks  and  withered  bodies; 
and  young  women  with  lustrous  black  hair  and 
sparkling  eyes  for  which  Fifth  Avenue  ladies  would 
have  gladly  exchanged  their  jewels. 

I  looked  at  this  curious  and  pathetic  scene. 
"This  misery  is  the  work  of  cruel  persecution,"  I 
murmured  to  myself.  Jewesses  with  shrivelled 
faces  and  dim,  once-brilliant  eyes,  carrying  big 
baskets  on  their  arms,  passed  me  and  murmured 
mechanically  in  plain  Russian- Yiddish  and  in 
pitiful  tones:  "Reb  Yid  [Mr.  Jew],  buy  something. 
Everything  cheap,  almost  for  nothing." 

A  gray-bearded  Jew,  wrapped  up  in  a  big  ulster, 
and  with  a  pair  of  old  Russian  boots  on  his  feet, 
rubbed  his  hands  and  begged  in  a  poverty-stricken 
voice:  "Good  health  to  you,  Reb  Yid.  Buy  a  comb 
below  cost — so  may  the  One  above  help  me!" 

Then  I  heard  a  voice  that  made  me  turn  around 
and  stare.  "  Women !  women  !  candles  for  Shabbos  ! 
Six  for  five  cents — for  Shabbos  !  " 

The  candle-vender  was  a  tall  man  with  a  white 


278  The  Fugitive 

beard,  dressed  in  a  threadbare  coat  that  had  once 
been  of  good  quality,  and  a  costly  Russian  fur  hat 
that  betrayed  long  wear.  From  his  shoulder  hung 
a  box  by  a  strap.  "Women  !  candles  for  Shabbos ! 
Six  for  five  cents — for  Shabbos  !  "  he  repeated  auto- 
matically 

I  observed  him  closely.  "Is  it  possible — Mr. 
Takiff?"  I  asked  myself  incredulously. 

He  seemed  to  feel  my  scrutiny  and  raised  his 
eyes.  His  face  was  marred  by  deep  furrows  of 
sorrow,  and  his  eyes  looked  melancholy. 

"Mr.  Takiff?"  I  said. 

He  looked  at  me  studiously.  "Israel?"  he 
answered  hesitatingly. 

I  nodded  my  head;  I  was  overwhelmed  with 
emotion. 

"Mr.  Takiff?"  I  repeated. 

"Call  me  not  Naomi,  call  me  Mara;  for  the 
Almighty  has  dealt  very  bitterly  with  me,"  he 
answered  in  the  words  of  Naomi,  shaking  my  hand 
affectionately. 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?"  he  questioned. 

I  told  him. 

He  quickly  thrust  his  merchandise  into  his  box 
and  said:  "Come  to  my  house.  She  will  be  glad 
to  see  you." 

I  divined  who  "she"  was. 

"  Do  not  trouble  yourself  on  my  account.  I  do 
not  want  you  to  lose  to-day's  profit,"  I  urged. 

"Let  the  whole  business  go  to  blazes  !"  he  answered 


In  the  Land  of  Liberty  279 

bitterly.  "  I  stay  here  all  day  and  make  thirty  or 
forty  cents,  and  sometimes  I  must  give  away  half 
of  my  profit  to  that  tall  policeman,  who  often 
threatens  to  make  me  move.  This  is  American 
business,"  he  added  with  a  sigh. 

"  How  delighted  I  am  to  see  you,  my  good  Israel !" 
he  said  with  manifest  pleasure,  as  we  pressed 
through  the  busy  crowd.  "You  will  excuse  me  for 
calling  you  Israel;  in  America  you  will  be  Mister," 
he  explained  ironically.  "  Oh,  she  will  be  so  pleased 
to  see  you!"  he  repeated  without  mentioning  her 
name.  "We  are  not  far  from  my  home;  we  live 
on  Ludluff  [Ludlow]  Street." 

"Here  we  are,"  he  said  a  few  minutes  later, 
stopping  before  a  dingy,  five-story  tenement  house. 
"We  live  high  up — on  the  fourth." 

The  entrance  was  filthy  and  reeky;  the  stench 
almost  stopped  my  breathing.  An  old  hag,  her 
withered  breast  bare  and  a  dilapidated  wig 
cocked  on  one  side,  sat  on  the  first  step  of  the 
rickety  flight  of  stairs,  with  her  mouth  wide 
open  and  her  hands  supporting  her  head.  She 
stared  idiotically  in  front  of  her,  without  looking 
at  anything  in  particular.  She  did  not  move 
aside  or  budge  when  we  walked  up  the  stair- 
case. I  observed  that  her  eyes  did  not  wink  or 
stir  when  we  passed  by  her;  they  were  like  those 
of  a  mummy. 

The  stairs  were  narrow,  and  the  baluster  was  so 
nasty  that  I  could  not  lay  my  hands  on  it.  When 


280  The  Fugitive 

we  reached  the  top  of  the  first  flight  the  old  man 
groaned.  I  was  also  tired. 

At  the  top  of  the  second  flight  he  groaned  again, 
spat,  and  muttered  something  to  himself. 

We  mounted  the  stairs  of  the  next  story,  pick- 
ing our  way  through  the  children  that  obstructed 
the  way.  My  aged  companion  muttered  something 
like  a  curse  between  his  teeth.  The  door  of  one 
of  the  apartments  on  this  floor  opened  and  a  young 
woman  protruded  her  tousled  head  and  called: 
"Yankele,  where  are  you?  A  cholera  into  your 
bones !  It  is  Friday,  and  he  does  not  mind  it  at 
all.  Quick — fetch  me  two  cents'  worth  of  pepper 
and  raisins  and  a  penny's  worth  of  almonds." 

Finally  we  reached  the  fourth  floor.  The  gray- 
headed  Mr.  Takiff  burst  out:  "Let  the  devil  take 
the  American  stairs  !  They  take  my  breath  away." 
He  tried  to  open  one  of  the  several  doors  in  the 
dark  hall.  It  was  locked.  "She  must  have  gone 
out.  We'll  go  into  my  sister's  until  she  gets  back." 

He  knocked  at  the  other  door  on  the  same 
floor.  "Gittele,  we  have  a  guest.  Can  you  recog- 
nise him?"  he  said  to  the  woman  who  responded 
to  his  knock. 

I  recognised  her  instantly.  She  was  the  same 
Gittele  I  had  seen  years  before,  buxom  and  healthy, 
but  her  face  bore  the  marks  of  suffering. 

She  looked  at  me  and  smiled,  saying  she  could 
not  recall  me.  When  my  host  told  her  who  I  was 
she  seemed  delighted  at  seeing  me  again. 


In  the  Land  of  Liberty  281 

"Are  you  long  from  home    [meaning  Russia]?" 

I  told  her  how  long. 

"Blessed  are  those  who  know  not  of  this  cursed 
land!"  she  said  with  a  sigh.  "At  home  we  were 
somebody.  Every  one  knew  of  us  and  we  [she  always 
spoke  for  her  husband,  too]  lived  in  comfort ;  but 
here — would  that  Columbus  had  never  been  born, 
so  that  we  had  been  spared  from  coming  to  this 
land  of  rigorous  service !  Woe  to  Reb  Dovidle,  at 
whose  table  every  needy  person  found  food  and 
assistance ! 

"On  Friday  night,"  she  continued  plaintively, 
"my  baal-bos  never  'made  Kiddush'  without  three 
strangers  at  the  table.  And  in  this  cursed  America, 
woe  to  us  what  we  have  come  to  !  My  husband  has 
a  little  tailor  shop  and  Yankil,  Beril,  and  Shmeril 
[Yiddish  equivalent  for  Tom,  Dick,  and  Harry]  are 
his  equals !  Well,  the  dollar  is  their  god  in  this 
country,  and  people  are  estimated  by  their  bank 
accounts,  not  by  their  real  value.  Talking  between 
ourselves" — this  in  a  lower  voice,  as  if  she  feared  to 
be  overheard  by  somebody — "who  came  over  to 
this  country  from  Russia  before  the  '  riots '  ?  Any 
fine  people?  Any  educated  or  learned  Jews? 
None  but  shoemakers,  tailors,  water-carriers, 
'Nicholas'  soldiers,  and  some  with  prison  badges 
on  their  backs.  Now  these  people  are  presidents 
in  synagogues,  and  they  have  the  matbaeh  [coin]. 
As  the  saying  goes,  he  who  has  the  matbaeh  has  the 
daeh  [say].  Woe  is  me" — she  suddenly  checked 


282  The  Fugitive 

herself — "  while  emptying  my  bitter  heart  I  forgot 
to  offer  the  guest  a  glass  of  tea.  No  doubt  you're 
hungry,"  and  she  hurried  to  the  adjoining  room. 

While  his  sister  was  thus  "emptying  her  bitter 
heart"  Mr.  Takiff  continually  shook  his  bowed 
head. 

In  the  meantime  I  cast  a  glance  about  the  house. 
There  were  only  three  rooms.  The  one  we  sat  in 
was  the  kitchen  and  dining-room,  the  furniture 
of  which  consisted  of  a  small  table  covered  with 
oilcloth,  a  stove  near  the  sink,  dish-shelves  on 
which  I  noticed  a  samovar  and  six  candlesticks; 
on  the  walls  were  a  picture  of  the  President  of  the 
United  States  at  an  inauguration,  and  certificates 
of  several  lodges,  to  which,  I  presumed,  the  head 
of  the  family  belonged.  The  room,  though  small, 
was  neat  and  tidy. 

"Make  yourself  at  home,  Mr.  Russakoff,"  Gittele 
said  to  me,  returning  with  a  white  cloth,  which  she 
laid  on  the  table.  "My  brother's  guest  is  also  my 
guest;  and  besides,  we  are  old  friends,  too." 

She  poured  out  tea  for  me,  remarking:  "Ameri- 
can tea !  Does  it  have  any  taste  or  flavour  ?  I 
brought  a  samovar  from  home,  but  where  can 
you  get  the  proper  coals  in  this  country,  and  who 
has  the  time  to  bother  with  it?  My  husband 
advised  me  not  to  bring  it  here  at  all,  but  I  could 
not  part  with  it ;  we  had  three,  and  I  sold  the  others. 
I  also  brought  a  Shaas  [the  Talmud],  but  who  gives 
a  glance  into  the  Talmud  in  this  treif  America? 


In  the  Land  of  Liberty  283 

There  it  lies  packed  up  over  my  bed.  At  home 
my  children  would  be  rabbis,  perhaps,  but 
here — oi  and  woe  is  me ! — no  one  cares  for  such 
things.  My  children  do  not  want  to  answer 
in  Yiddish  when  I  talk  to  them — nothing  but 
English. 

"No  use  talking,"  she  resumed  while  I  was 
drinking  tea.  "In  America  everything  is  treif — 
the  very  water  we  drink  is  treif,  and  who  talks  of 
meat  ?  Only  the  other  day  it  was  discovered  that 
our  butcher  used  to  sell  treif  meat  for  kosher! 
Well,  how  can  one  live  in  such  a  land?  At  home 
we  suffered,  but  we  had  hopes  for  Gan-Eden.  But 
here  everything  is  forfeited,  and  we  have  to  roast 
some  day  in  the  blazes  of  hell  like  the  wicked." 
Here  she  sighed  deeply,  as  if  she  beheld  the  rising 
flames  before  her.  "And  our  children  will  not  even 
say  Kaddish  after  our  death,  and  all  our  labour  will 
be  wasted." 

She  recited  her  monologue  uninterrupted,  while 
I  partook  of  the  bread,  cheese,  and  butter  that  she 
had  set  before  me.  "America!"  she  proceeded 
after  a  short  pause.  "  Does  any  one  live  here  as  at 
home?  Everybody  is  labouring  in  sweat  for  a 
mean,  scanty  living.  At  home  I  had  two  Jewish 
servant  girls  and  a  gentile  girl,  and  I  was  a  lady; 
while  here  I  work  and  scrub  the  floors  like  a  prisoner 
in  Siberia — Shone  Zion  [enemies  of  Zion — idio- 
matic— would  that  Israel's  enemies  were  in  such 
condition].  At  home  we  had  fine  furniture,  and 


2 84  The  Fugitive 

here  all  we  have  is  a  bureau  and  that  old  Washington 
[wash-stand]." 

"Let  us  go  to  the  front  room,"  said  Mr.  Takiff 
after  I  had  finished  eating.  "We  will  talk  over  old 
stories  until  'she'  comes." 

We  went  to  the  parlour,  or  front  room,  as  they 
called  it.  Besides  a  folding-bed  there  were  a  set 
of  second-hand  plush-covered  furniture,  a  small 
case  crammed  with  books,  and  an  old  organ. 

We  sat  down.  A  short  pause  ensued.  I  could 
see  that  he  wished  to  tell  me  about  Malke,  so  I 
waited  for  him  to  begin. 

"She  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you,"  he  repeated 
again.  "My  sister  grumbles  all  the  time,  but  I 
bear  my  wounds  silently."  He  was  approaching 
the  subject  gently,  I  observed.  His  careworn  face 
showed  inner  grief. 

"  It  would  be  a  sin  for  me  to  complain.  I  have  to 
praise  the  Lord  for  His  favours  to  me  in  my  old  age. 
Why  should  I  bewail  my  lost  wealth,  so  long  as  I 
have  saved  my  daughter?  Her  name  here  is 
Regina  Wigodski.  Yes,  I  wrested  her  from  that 
scoundrel's  hands,"  he  said  to  me  as  if  he  were 
talking  to  himself.  "He  threatened  to  shoot  me; 
he  even  aimed  at  me.  But  what  a  foolish  count ! 
I  would  rather  have  the  bullet  pierce  my  brain  than 
leave  her  in  his  house.  But  I  saved  her.  I  found 
out  that  she  was  with  him  on  his  estate  near  Mohilev. 
I  went  there  about  a  month  after  you  left  us.  His 
servants  would  not  let  me  in.  But  I  got  in.  He 


In  the  Land  of  Liberty  285 

stood  in  the  veranda  of  his  palace  and  set  his  dogs 
on  me,  but  they  only  tore  my  clothes  and  bruised 
my  hand  here."  He  showed  me  a  deep  scar.  "  But 
I  did  get  into  his  palace  in  spite  of  all  his  threats. 
I  implored  him  to  give  me  back  my  daughter, 
and  fell  on  my  knees  before  him.  I  kissed  his 
boots,  but  he  only  kicked  me.  He  threatened  to 
throw  me  out  of  his  inn  and  ruin  me.  '  Malke,  my 
daughter !'  I  cried  with  all  my  voice,  so  she  could 
not  help  hearing  me.  He  ordered  his  servants  to 
throw  me  out.  They  beat  me,  they  flogged  me, 
they  almost  crushed  me.  But  I  heard  somebody 
weeping  in  an  adjoining  room.  I  knew  her  voice. 
I  knew  she  would  come  back  to  me ;  I  was  cer- 
tain that  now  she  must  come.  So  I  waited.  I 
knew  she  would  come,  and  come  she  did. 

"  It  was  in  the  middle  of  winter.  I  had  neglected 
my  business  and  the  inn  was  less  frequented,  for 
I  was  practically  alone  and  could  not  attend  to  it. 
My  wife  had  died  just  a  week  before."  This  last 
he  said  as  if  in  answer  to  my  inquisitive  look. 
"Late  one  night  I  was  sitting  alone  in  the  house. 
My  little  boy  was  asleep.  Snow  had  drifted  around 
the  inn  as  high  as  the  window-sills  and  a  storm  was 
raging.  I  sat  by  the  hot  oven  warming  myself 
and  looking  into  a  book,  though  my  thoughts  were 
far  away.  My  wife's  ghost — peace  be  with  her ! — had 
come  to  me  in  a  dream  the  night  before  and  said: 
'  Nosen,  Malke  is  coming  home;  forgive  her.'  I  was 
thinking  about  this,  when  I  thought  the  latch  of 


286  The  Fugitive 

the  door  clicked.  It  must  be  caused  by  the  wind, 
I  decided.  A  few  minutes  later  the  latch  clicked 
again,  as  if  some  one  were  trying  to  lift  it.  The 
blasts  of  the  wind  made  frightful  noises,  as  if  they 
were  going  to  upset  the  inn.  Then  everything 
was  quiet  for  a  minute  or  so.  I  closed  my  book 
and  paced  up  and  down  the  room.  I  heard  some- 
thing bump  up  against  the  door.  I  hurried  to  the 
door  and  opened  it.  A  figure  lay  prostrate  before 
me.  I  fetched  the  lamp  and  looked  at  it.  I  need 
not  tell  you  the  rest.  She  had  returned  to  the  God 
of  Israel." 

He  heaved  a  deep  sigh  and  proceeded: 

"That  scoundrel  took  the  inn  away  from  me  and 
ruined  me,  as  he  had  threatened  to  do,  but  I  was 
prepared  for  it.  I  sold  out  what  little  was  left  me 
and  sailed  for  America.  I  left  my  son  with  a 
wealthy  brother  of  mine  in  Kovno.  At  home  it 
would  be  hard  for  her  to  get  married,  I  thought, 
so  I  decided  to  come  to  this  country.  I  am  not 
sorry  for  it. 

"  Coming  over  here  I  had  a  little  money  yet,  and 
I  did  not  let  her  go  to  work  in  a  shop.  I  peddled  and 
made  my  three  or  four  dollars  a  week.  But  she 
insisted  on  going  to  work,  and  she  found  a  place  in 
a. shirt  factory,  where  she  made  the  acquaintance 
of  Mr.  Wigodski,  whom  she  married  a  year  ago. 
He  is  also  a  student  from  home,  and  he  expects  to 
take  up  a  profession  after  a  while." 

As  he  finished  tears  were  rolling  down  his  wrinkled 


In  the  Land  of  Liberty  287 

face,  but  I  could  not  tell  whether  they  were  tears 
of  joy  or  grief. 

The  door  opened  and  a  middle-aged  man  with  a 
black  beard  and  a  jovial  face  entered.  I  recognised 
him — the  same  Reb  Dovidle  I  had  met  six  years 
before.  He  was  not  as  well  dressed  as  he  was  then, 
and  hard  work  had  made  deep  marks  in  his  counte- 
nance. 

"Well,  Gittele,  God  be  praised!"  he  said  in 
Yiddish  to  his  wife.  "Business  is  improving  from 
day  to  day." 

He  took  off  his  stiff  hat,  put  on  his  skull-cap,  and 
came  into  the  "front  room." 

"You  are  home  early  to-day,  Nosen.  Oh,  I  see, 
you've  found  an  old  friend.  Sholom-Aleichem." 
He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  me  cordially.  "I  can 
always  tell  a  'greener*  as  soon  as  I  look  at  him," 
he  added,  without  waiting  for  a  formal  introduction. 
"Any  news  in  Russia?  How  is  the  treatment  of 
the  Jews?  As  severe  as  ever?"  and  added  a  few 
more  questions  without  giving  me  a  chance  to  reply 
to  the  first. 

"Do  you  recognise  him,  David?"  (Dovidle  being 
a  diminutive  of  David)  asked  Mr.  Takiff . 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  the  smile  that 
spread  over  his  face  plainly  signified  "no." 

"Israel — a — Russ "  his  brother-in-law  tried 

to  help  him  out.  (I  had  adopted  the  second  name 
of  my  Russian  passport.) 

He  shook  his  head  negatively. 


288  The  Fugitive 

"I  had  the  pleasure  of  eating  at  your  table  one 
Friday  night,"  I  struck  in. 

At  my  remark  his  countenance  beamed  with 
gratification.  "Many  ate  at  my  table  at  home," 
he  said,  nodding  his  head  with  a  touch  of  pride. 

I  recalled  to  his  mind  the  occasion  on  which  I 
had  profited  by  his  hospitality. 

A  little  later  I  told  them  that,  much  as  I  appre- 
ciated their  kindness,  I  would  not  intrude  on  them 
longer,  but  would  go  at  once  and  look  for  lodgings. 

"  Really,  you  must  think  we  came  from  Sodom  or 
Gemoro,"  said  Gittele,  with  just  a  little  bit  of  in- 
dignation in  her  voice.  "Do  you  think  we  will  let 
you  go  away  Erev-Shabbos  ?  We  are  just  as  good 
Jews  here  as  we  were  at  home." 

"Why,  you  don't  know  anybody  else  here  in 
America,"  put  in  Mr.  Takiff.  "Stay  here  over 
Shabbos,  and  Sunday  I  will  find  you  a  lodging." 

This  Ghetto  life  appeared  very  strange  to  me 
after  I  had  been  away  from  it  so  long.  I  had  come 
to  dislike  it — at  times  I  even  detested  it.  Yet  now 
I  found  it  pleasant ;  their  friendly  talk,  their  cordial 
welcome,  their  sincere  hospitality  warmed  my  for- 
lorn heart. 

"That's  my  daughter,"  Mr.  Takiff  said  a  few 
minutes  later,  when  we  heard  footsteps  in  the  hall. 

He  opened  the  door  and  called,  and  the  next 
instant  the  same  Malke  stood  before  me — the  same 
brunette  with  the  same  large,  pensive,  dark  eyes, 
with  the  same  warm  colour  that  spoke  of  life  and 


In  the  Land  of  Liberty  289 

passion.  Only  she  was  a  trifle  stouter,  and  there  was 
a  look  in  her  eyes  that  told  of  experience. 

"Do  you  know  this  gentleman?"  her  father 
asked,  glancing  from  her  to  me. 

She  blushed  and  stretched  out  her  hand .  ' '  Israel, ' ' 
she  said  in  a  very  low  voice.  The  same  sweet  voice, 
but  with  a  slight  note  of  sorrow  in  it. 

We  did  not  refer  to  old  Dubrooka  days;  we  only 
spoke  of  the  present  and  future. 


CHAPTER  II 

SHMUNKE  MENKE  SHMUNKE'S 

THIS  is  my  third  birth,  I  said  to  myself  that  night 
as  I  tossed  sleeplessly  from  side  to  side.  I  was  a 
babe  again.  My  proficiency  in  languages,  my 
literary  skill,  my  ideas — none  of  these  was  of  avail 
to  me  here.  Again  I  was  babbling  the  Jewish 
jargon  as  in  the  beginning  of  my  miserable  child- 
hood; again  an  orphan — without  a  fatherland — a 
wanderer,  a  vagabond  in  a  strange  land.  I  had 
to  start  life  anew  from  its  very  beginning.  Again 
I  was  in  the  Ghetto  I  so  much  despised.  It  seemed 
that  the  Ghetto  was  foreordained  for  me.  In  vain 
had  I  struggled  to  free  myself  from  it;  futile  had 
been  my  strenuous  efforts  to  break  away  from  the 
narrow  confinement  of  the  Jewry.  By  a  force 
stronger  than  my  will  I  was  drawn  back  to  it. 

Mr.  Takiff  found  me  lodgings  with  a  family  that 
he  said  he  had  known  in  Russia,  and  on  the  fol- 
lowing Sunday  morning  I  climbed  the  four  flights 
of  dirty  stairs  that  led  to  my  new  home  and  knocked 
gently  at  the  door. 

It  opened,  and  a  heavily  bewigged  woman,  with 
long  earrings  dangling  down  her  cheeks,  thrust  out 

290 


2QI 


her  head  and  asked  in  Yiddish:  "Well,  what  do 
you  want?" 

I  retreated  a  step  in  surprise.  Instead  of  an- 
nouncing myself  as  her  new  lodger,  I  asked:  "If 
you  please,  aren't  you  from  Javolin?" 

"  Where  should  I  come  from  if  not  from  Javolin  ?" 
she  answered  with  a  question. 

"Is  not  your  name  Groone?"  I  ventured  to  ask 
again,  smiling  at  the  grimace  on  her  face. 

"What,  then,  is  my  name — Sprinze?"  she  flung 
another  question  instead  of  a  reply,  and  swung  the 
door  as  if  to  give  me  a  hint. 

"And  your  husband's  name  is  Menke,"  I  con- 
tinued tantalisingly,  holding  the  door  to  keep  her 
from  shutting  it  in  my  face. 

"What,  then,  should  his  name  be — Todres?" 
came  another  interrogation,  quick  as  lightning. 
Then  she  added:  "I  don't  understand  you,  young 
man.  My  father  was  just  as  nice  a  man  as  yours, 
and  don't  you  come  to  insult  me  in  my  own  house." 

"  Don't  you  know  me,  Groone  ? "  I  smiled,  moving 
a  little  forward. 

My  tone  seemed  to  have  gained  favour,  for  she 
said  with  rather  less  sharpness:  "Where  do  you 
come  from?" 

I  thought  this  enough  dilly-dallying  and  told 
her  who  I  was. 

"  God  be  with  you !  Come  in,  Reb  Israel,  come  in. 
Who  would  have  ever  believed  that  you  would  grow 
so  tall  and  nice — and  in  America  !  Ach,  mein  Gott ! 


292  The  Fugitive 

You  also  in  America !     Tell  me,  Reb  Israel,  how 
do  you  come  to  this  country?" 

"I  could  not  come  by  rail,  so  I  came  by  boat," 
I  answered,  with  rather  a  weak  attempt  at 
humour. 

"Upon  my  word,  the  same  Israel,  with  the 
same  old  jokes.  When  did  you  get  here?" 

I  told  her. 

"  Did  you  leave  your  wife  and  children  at  home  ?" 

I  said  I  had  neither. 

"Upon  my  word  in  honour,  you're  making  fun 
of  me.  How  is  it  without  a  wife?"  she  asked 
incredulously. 

"But  why  am  I  standing  here?  "  she  said  before 
I  could  answer.  "Such  a  guest!  and  I  do  not  so 
much  as  invite  you  to  a  glass  of  tea.  Would  you 
not  have  a  'warm  glass'?  Do  have  a  glass  of  tea, 
and  don't  stand  on  any  ceremonies." 

I  had  great  difficulty  in  declining  this  invitation. 
"How  does  a  person  refuse  a  glass  of  tea?  How 
is  it  that  a  Jew  doesn't  drink  a  glass  of  tea  ?  When 
does  a  person  not  want  a  glass  of  tea?  How  is  it 
possible?  If  it  won't  do  any  good  it  surely 
won't  do  any  harm?  What  will  you  lose  by  it? 
Do  you  call  this  a  treat  ?  One  comes  into  a  friend's 
house,  he  drinks  a  glass  of  tea.  How  is  it  without 
a  glass  of  tea  ?  An  old  friend  comes  in,  and  there  ! 
he  won't  taste  a  little  cold  water.  How  can  a 
person  say  he  doesn't  want  any  tea?  One  drinks." 

With  these  and  like  arguments  I  was  assailed, 


Shmunke  Menke  Shmunke's  293 

and  would  perhaps  have  surrendered  had  not 
Menke  fortunately  come  in. 

"S-h!"  Groone  warned  me,  then  folded  her 
hands  in  maternal  easiness.  "Menke,  will  you 
recognise  this  young  man?" 

Menke  remained  standing  as  if  suddenly  pushed 
under  a  shower-bath,  with  a  half-idiotic  smile  on  his 
face,  his  "American  hat"  a  trifle  inclined  to  one 
side. 

"  I  do  remember  him,  but  I  can't  recall  his  name," 
he  stammered  in  his  nasal  voice,  shrugging  his 
shoulders. 

"Then  say  you  don't  know  him,"  his  spouse 
burst  out.  "Why  are  you  chewing  and  pretending 
that  you  do  know  him  ?  Long  shall  live  this  head  !" 
She  patted  her  wig  with  her  hand.  "The  moment 
he  opened  the  door  I  cried  out '  Israel ! ' ' 

Menke  was  abashed  at  this ;  he  continued  to  look 
at  me  with  a  perplexed  and  foolish  smile. 

"Why  don't  you  give  him  Sholom-Aleichem  ? 
Would  that  I  may  have  sorrows  in  plagues  in  my 
house  if  he  recognised  him  now,  either";  and  then 
she  added  metaphorically:  "If  you  will  put  your 
fingers  into  his  mouth  he  will  not  bite  them  off. 
Don't  you  remember  Israel,  who  had  lodgings  with 
us  in  Javolin?" 

"The  one  which  Rabbi  Brill— a " 

Groone  gave  him  a  look  that  would  have  scared 
any  one. 

But  I  came  to  his  relief  and  finished  the  sentence. 


294  The  Fugitive 

"Yes,  the  one  whom  Rabbi  Brill  expelled  from  the 
Yeshiva." 

Then  Groone  told  me  how  they  happened  to  be 
in  this  country.  It  was  all  on  account  of  Shmunke. 
He  was  called  to  the  army  because  the  death  of 
an  older  brother  by  her  husband's  first  wife  was 
not  recorded,  and  he  was  therefore  alive  as  far  as 
the  Government  was  concerned,  and  hence  Shmunke 
was  not  the  oldest  and  was  obliged  to  serve  the 
Czar  five  years.  Groone  said  she  would  rather  go 
to  America  than  to  see  Shmunke  wearing  a  military 
uniform,  and  so  they  sold  their  hut  and  sailed  for 
the  "golden  land,"  where  she  hoped  her  son  would 
become  a  rabbi.  But  as  Groone  expressed  it: 
"A  man  thinks  and  God  blinks." 

As  I  was  talking  with  these  people,  or  rather  as 
Groone  talked  and  we  listened,  the  door  opened 
and  a  tall,  bony  fellow,  smooth-shaven,  with  glasses 
on  his  nose,  came  in,  and  without  looking  at  us 
passed  through  the  room  into  the  next  one. 

"Shmunke!"  Groone  called  after  him. 

"  I  have  told  you  a  million  times,"  the  young  man 
said,  turning  about,  "that  my  name  is  Dzames, 
and  don't  you  call  me  by  your  dirty  sheeny  names." 
And  he  disappeared  wrathfully  into  the  adjoining 
room. 

"  That  is  America  for  you !  "  Groone  nodded  her 
head  and  waved  her  hand  toward  Shmunke,  and 
Menke  puffed  at  his  pipe  indifferently.  "'At 
home*  Rabbi  Brill  consulted  him  whenever  he  had 


Shmimke  Menfcc  Shmtmke's  295 

a  knotty  point  in  the  Talmud,  and  here  he  would 
throw  stones  at  a  Jew.  Oi  and  woe  is  me  what  I 
have  lived  to  see!" 

"What  are  you  jabbering  there?"  Shmunke 
appeared  in  the  doorway  with  a  sneer  on  his  face. 
"Your  Jewish  nonsense  over  again?  How  many 
times  have  I  told  you  to  leave  me  out  of  your 
lamentation  after  your  rotten  Judaism?  I'll  leave 
home  to-night  if  you  go  on  with  this."  He  dis- 
appeared again,  and  I  heard  him  strike  a  match  in 
the  next  room. 

"This  is  my  reward  for  all  my  toil  and  labour," 
complained  the  mother  in  a  hushed  tone,  shaking 
her  head  disconsolately.  "How  many  nights  did  I 
deprive  myself  of  sleep  on  his  account !  How  many 
times  did  I  not  eat  so  that  he  could  have  the  very 
best  of  food !  And  these  are  the  thanks  he  gives  me  ! 
Oi,  America  !  America  !"  She  shook  her  head  as  if 
in  great  distress.  "  Would  that  Columbus  had  been 
drowned  before  he  discovered  it!" 

"  I  have  nothing  against  Shmunke,"  she  whispered 
to  me  the  next  instant;  "if  it  had  not  been  for  us 
he  would  not  have  come  here.  What  is  the  use  of 
talking  ?  We  must  keep  quiet.  He  pays  his  board, 
and  I  make  on  him  a  dollar  or  a  dollar  and  a  half 
a  week." 

Then  she  walked  upon  her  tiptoes  to  Shmunke's 
room,  and  opening  the  door  timidly  said : 

"  Shmu — a — Dzames,  we  have  a  guest,  a  student  of 
Javolin 


296  The  Fugitive 

Without  answering  her  he  appeared  with  a 
lighted  cigarette  between  his  lips.  With  his  chest 
thrust  forward  he  stepped  up  to  me  and  said  in 
English,  in  a  tone  as  if  addressing  an  inferior:  "So 
you  are  from  Javolin.  My  name  is  Dzames  Connally. 
I  vas  also  a  student  of  dat  place." 

When  I  had  told  him  my  name  he  shook  my 
hand  cordially  and  rattled  off  the  following  speech: 
"  How  t'ings  turn !  Before  you  vas  de  intelligence 
boy  and  I  vas  de  fanatic,  and  yet  [meaning  now] 
you  are,  of  course,  a  good  orthodoxian  Jewish  and 
I  am  a  free-t' inker.  Dis  ignorant  Jewish  makes  me 
seeck  vit  deir  religion."  He  spoke  contemptuously, 
swinging  his  long  arms  and  puffing  out  clouds  of 
cigarette  smoke.  "And,  besides,  deir  manners  are 
awful,  vit  de  beards  and  shabby  clo'es,  and  dey 
talks  not'ing  but  Yiddish.  Deir  condition  is  awful ! 
And  all  because  of  deir  fanaticcism  and  super- 
stitiousness.  Vere  God — vat  God  ? — ha  !  ha  !  ha  ! 
Dey  goes  to  shoollike  in  Russia  and  pray — to  whom? 
Not'ing;  dey  pray.  Is  dere  a  God?  Is  it  not 
nature — everyt'ing  nature,  as  Spinoza  believed? 
Dere  is  not'ing  but  nature.  And  if  de  Jewish  vould 
believe  in  Sotzialism  and  read  Karl  Marx  and 
Lassalle,  or  at  least  read  de  Arbeiter  Zeitung  or 
Dem  Ernes,  dey  vould  too  become  delightened 
and  educated  like  us  culturised  peoples." 

He  suddenly  checked  himself  with  a  broad  laugh. 
"Ha!  ha!  I  forgotten  myself  dat  you  are  a 
'  greener,' "  and  he  changed  into  Yiddish.  "  It  won't 


Shmtmfce  Menfcc  Shmunfce's  297 

take  you  long,  and  you  will  also  speak  English  as 
good  as  I.  I  spoke  English  as  good  as  now  when 
I  had  been  here  only  six  months,  and  when  a 
year  passed  nobody  could  tell  that  I  was  not  born 
in  America.  Ha !  ha !  ha !"  He  drifted  off  again 
into  English.  "I  comes  in  abigclodinghoi'se  and 
de  proprietor  says  to  me,  '  Mr.  Connally,  I  did  not 
know  you  vas  a  Jew  at  all ;  I  fought  you  vas  a 
Yankee — indeed,  you  look  like  one.'  Honest  to 
God,  nobody  can  tell  dat  I  am  not  born  in  America, 
and  I  am  here  only  a  leetle  over  t'ree  year.  Ha ! 
ha !  ha !  I  forgotten  myself  again  and  I  talks 
Engilish  to  you." 

As  Shmunke,  or  James,  was  thus  "delightening" 
me,  his  mother's  greenish  eyes  quickly  skipped  from 
her  son  to  me  with  covert  pride,  notwithstanding 
her  previous  grumblings  regarding  his  infidelity; 
and  Menke,  drowsily  leaning  on  his  arm,  puffed  at 
his  pipe  unconcernedly. 

A  few  minutes  later  Groone  and  I  began  to  talk 
business,  and  after  considerable  bargaining  we 
came  to  terms — seventy -five  cents  for  lodging,  and 
board  to  be  furnished  by  her  at  actual  cost.  On 
the  same  afternoon  my  trunk  was  placed  in  Groone's 
"front  room"  and  I  had  become  her  boarder,  sitting 
in  the  only  rocking-chair  in  the  house  and  brooding 
over  my  sorry  circumstances. 


CHAPTER  III 
I    LOOK    FOR   A   JOB 

ALTHOUGH  Dovidle — I  should  say  Mr.  Levando, 
as  he  was  best  known  here  by  his  second  name — 
was  engaged  in  shirt-making  himself,  he  said  it 
would  break  his  heart  to  see  a  graduate  of  gym- 
nasium and  university  sewing  garments,  so  he 
advised  me  to  look  for  more  genteel  work.  There- 
upon Mr.  Takiff  suggested  cigar-making,  but  Malke 
murmured  that  cigar-making  would  hurt  my  lungs 
and  heart.  However,  Monday  morning  I  decided  to 
make  a  tour  through  the  small  cigar  shops  on  the 
East  Side,  to  look  for  a  job.  After  an  hour  of  aimless 
wandering  I  stopped  before  a  number  of  English- 
Yiddish  signs,  with  a  determination  to  seek  work 
from  some  of  the  firms  within.  One  large  sign, 
dangling  from  a  fire-escape  landing  on  a  fourth 
floor,  bore  the  words,  "  Agudas  Achim  d'kak  Shnipin- 
koffka" — that  is,  the  brotherly  congregation  of  the 
above-named  Russian  town.  Immediately  below 
it  I  read:  "Here  are  made  the  cheapest  pants  in 
America  by  Getzel  Simachowitch,  clothing  manu- 
facturer. Button-holes,  overalls,  shirts,  knee  pants, 
children's  suits,  and  caps  a  specialty.  Hands 
wanted." 

298 


I  Look  for  a  Job  299 

I  stood  there  with  my  eyes  uplifted,  studying  the 
puzzling  sign  and  wondering  whether  the  Agudas 
Achim,  etc.,  was  the  name  of  a  corporation  of  which 
Simachowitch  was  the  manager,  or  whether  there 
were  two  firms  on  this  one  floor.  I  might  ask 
some  one,  I  thought.  A  little  Jew  with  matted 
beard,  dressed  in  a  sack-coat  which  had  done  good 
service  to  an  "uptown"  gentleman  whose  height 
must  have  exceeded  the  present  wearer  about 
six  inches,  and  wearing  white  trousers  which  had 
evidently  belonged  to  the  same  "uptown"  gentle- 
man, and  which  were  now  rolled  up  to  fit  the 
present  owner's  short  legs,  was  rushing  by  me, 
carrying  a  bundle  of  merchandise  under  one  arm 
and  several  old  hats  in  the  other  hand. 

" Mister,"  I  cried  after  this  thrifty  peddler,  "what 
is  the  meaning  of  this  sign?" 

He  looked  at  me  distrustfully.  "What  is  there 
to  puzzle  you?"  and  he  continued  puffing  at  his 
cheroot. 

"Is  it  a  tailor  shop  or  a  sh "  j.  was  ashamed 

to  utter  the  word  shool,  lest  he  should  laugh  in  my 
face  again. 

"  It  is  very  plain.  Even  a  child  can  read  Yiddish 
and  understand  it";  and  he  was  about  to  leave. 

"But "  I  remonstrated. 

"  Can't  you  see  it  is  a  shool  ?"  he  interrupted  some- 
what testily. 

"But  the  other  sign  below?"  I  added. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !"  he  laughed,  displaying  two  rows  of 


300  The  Fugitive 

rotten  teeth.  "A  green  animal,"  he  said  to  another 
hawker  who  was  just  passing  with  a  big  bundle, 
and  he  sped  away,  with  a  trail  of  smoke  after 
him,  like  a  "night  express." 

I  looked  at  some  more  signs.  One  read:  "Aaron 
Swalski,  from  Barditschev.  Chazan,  fowl-killer, 
circumciser,  matchmaker;  officiates  at  weddings; 
dealer  in  all  kinds  of  Hebrew  books;  Hebrew 
teacher.  Everything,  as  at  home  in  Russia,  at  the 
lowest  prices." 

On  the  third  story  I  noticed  another  sign  of  a 
clothing  manufacturer,  and  I  decided  to  go  in  and 
offer  my  services. 

I  walked  up  two  flights  of  stairs  and  found  myself 
in  a  hallway  so  dark  that  I  could  see  no  door. 
Sewing-machines  worked  speedily  somewhere  within 
and  made  the  floor  tremble.  As  I  stood  wondering 
where  the  door  could  be,  it  swung  open,  and  I  was 
almost  knocked  over  by  a  boy  with  sleeves  rolled 
up,  who  darted  past  me  and  down  the  stairs.  I 
entered  the  door  and  found  myself  in  a  square  room, 
the  dimensions  of  which  could  not  have  been  more 
than  sixteen  feet.  Two  girls  sat  stooped  over 
sewing-machines,  with  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
pieces  of  cloth  that  they  pushed  under  the  needles. 

"Whr-r — whr-r — whr-r-r-r-r "    the   machines 

hummed  busily.  At  another  machine  sat  an 
elderly  man  with  spectacles,  and  one  machine  stood 
unoccupied,  which  I  surmised  belonged  to  the  boy 
who  had  almost  caused  my  overthrow  at  the  door. 


I  Look  for  a  Job  301 

There  was  only  one  window ;  a  small  gaslight  burned 
over  the  elderly  man's  machine,  which  was  farthest 
from  the  window.  A  woman  whose  forehead  was 
half -covered  with  a  wig  was  pulling  the  thread  from 
seams;  next  to  her  stood  a  presser,  whose  face  was 
bathed  in  perspiration,  which  he  frequently  wiped  off 
with  his  rolled-up  shirt-sleeves ;  and  by  his  side  was  a 
gasoline  stove  on  which  the  irons  were  heating. 

No  one  noticed  me  as  I  entered,  except  the  be- 
wigged  woman,  who  gave  me  a  furtive  glance  and 
dropped  her  eyes  back  to  the  seam. 

A  few  minutes  later  the  boy  who  had  passed  me 
in  the  hall  returned.  He  was  the  boss's  son,  he 
informed  me,  and,  the  boss  being  away,  he  would 
attend  to  my  wants. 

One  girl  nudged  her  neighbour  with  her  elbow, 
and  both  cast  glances  at  my  feet.  The  two  of  them 
began  to  giggle.  The  blood  ascended  to  my  face; 
my  feelings  were  wounded.  In  my  native  land  I 
was  respected  as  a  student;  here  working-girls 
laughed  at  me. 

"I  can  tell  a  greener  by  his  shoes,"  I  overheard 
one  say. 

It  was  only  my  foreign  shoes  they  laughed  at. 
However,  it  hurt  me.  We  are  so  egotistic  that  we 
even  feel  the  insults  directed  at  our  belongings. 

The  presser  rolled  up  his  sleeves  a  little  higher 
anct  started  a  Yiddish  song.  One  girl  hummed 
after  him  and  the  machines  after  her.  The  other 
girl  raised  her  eyes  to  me.  Both  of  us  blushed. 


302  The  Fugitive 

To  hide  her  blush,  I  suppose,  she  said:  "Joe,  don't 
show  off  your  musical  talents." 

All  this  attention  from  the  hands  of  the  shop  I 
had  observed  while  telling  the  boss's  son  that  I  was 
looking  for  work.  "Are  you  a  tailor  from  home?" 
the  boy  asked  me  with  what  seemed  to  me  an 
impudent  air. 

That  again  hurt  me  not  a  little.  Could  he  not  see 
that  I  did  not  look  like  a  tailor  from  home  ? 

"No,"  I  answered  curtly. 

"Then  we  need  no  'greeners,"  he  said  arro- 
gantly. "We  can  get  enough  experienced  hands." 

I  closed  the  door.  A  shrill  laugh  followed 
me. 

I  decided  to  go  up  another  flight  and  see  Simacho- 
witch.  When  I  reached  the  door  of  the  manufac- 
turer of  pants,  overalls,  skirts,  and  children's  suits 
I  could  hear  no  sound  within  except  a  slight  click, 
between  that  of  a  sewing-machine  and  that  of  a 
slot-machine. 

I  entered  the  room  hesitatingly  and  remained 
standing  near  the  door.  There  was  only  one  person 
in  the  room — a  middle-aged  man,  bending  over  a 
button-hole  machine. 

At  the  farther  end  of  the  room  stood  a  red-painted 
box,  the  size  of  a  coffin,  in  which  the  scrolls  of  the 
Torah  were  buried,  I  supposed,  and  which  was 
overhung  by  a  curtain  with  a  "Yahweh  star"  in 
the  center.  It  was  a  house  of  worship,  surely. 
There  also  stood  near  the  ark  a  crazy  book-case 


I  Look  for  a  Job  303 

with  some  old  books  in  it.  Surely  a  house  of 
worship,  I  said  to  myself. 

Although  I  could  tell  from  the  expression  of  the 
man  making  button-holes  that  he  was  aware  of  my 
presence,  he  did  not  raise  his  eyes,  but  kept  them 
fixed  on  the  machine.  His  beard  struck  my  fancy 
first ;  it  was  of  a  quaint  colour :  the  sides  were  almost 
red,  the  lower  part  almost  dark,  his  mustache  fairly 
brown.  His  eyes  were  dim  and  watery;  his  fore- 
head was  high  and  broad ;  a  skull-cap  rested  peace- 
fully on  his  head.  This  was  Simachowitch,  "the 
cheapest  clothing  manufacturer  in  America, "  whose 
specialties  were  button-holes,  overalls,  shirts,  knee 
pants,  etc. 

When  he  had  finished  a  button-hole  the  machine 
jerked  and  stopped,  and  the  operator  raised  his 
head  questioningly.  I  repeated  what  I  had  said 
on  the  floor  below. 

Squinting  his  eyes  and  contracting  the  muscles  of 
his  face,  he  asked  in  a  voice  that  sounded  like  a 
stuffed-up  whistle,  evidently  without  having  heard 
my  question:  "What  do  you  wish?" 

I  told  him  again. 

"I  thank  my  stars  that  I  have  enough  work  for 
myself,  and  that  is  not  steady";  and  he  went  on 
with  the  making  of  another  button-hole. 

"But  your  sign  reads  that  you  manufacture 
pants." 

"Why,  do  you  want  to  buy  any  pants?"  He 
rose  as  if  to  wait  on  me. 


304  The  Fugitive 

"No,  but  I  thought  you  needed  hands.  So  you 
don't  manufacture  at  all?" 

"No;  I  make  button -holes.  But  I  sell  pants, 
too." 

"But  the  sign "  I  insisted,  with  my  natural 

proneness  to  argue. 

"I  see  you  are  a  'greener,'"  he  answered,  smiling 
and  wiping  his  watery  eyes.  "Look  here,  it  is 
business.  I  bought  the  sign  of  a  party  who  manu- 
factured everything  there  is  on  that,  and  I  erased 
that  party's  name  and  put  on  mine  instead.  Besides, 
it  looks  nicer." 

I  was  a  "greener,"  and  did  not  understand. 

"Is  this  a  synagogue  also?"  my  curiosity 
prompted  me  to  ask. 

"Why,  do  you  have  Yahrzeit  [death  anniversary 
of  either  parent]?  I  am  the  sexton  here." 

I  thought  I  had  seen  this  man  before,  but  I  could 
not  place  him.  The  voice  in  particular  sounded 
familiar.  So  I  made  another  attempt  to  make 
him  reveal  his  identity. 

"Is  tailoring  a  good  trade  here?" 

"Are  you  a  tailor  from  home?"  he  answered  with 
a  question,  unintentionally  wounding  my  pride. 

"No.     How  is  cigar-making?"  I  tried  again. 

"Are  you  going  to  learn  the  cigar  trade?  I'll 
sell  you  a  cigar-cutter  and  a  board — dirt  cheap," 
he  said,  emphasising  the  last  word.  "I  tried  to 
learn  it  myself,  but  have  given  it  up.  It  did  not 
agree  with  my  lungs  very  well."  And  he  coughed, 


I  Look  for  a  Job  305 

as  if  he  wished  to  show  me  how  much  it  had  affected 
him,  and  then  he  resumed  his  work  on  the  button- 
holes. 

After  I  had  looked  at  the  man  for  a  minute  or 
two  something  like  a  flash  of  lightning  brightened 
my  memory — Getzel  Gorgle  !  My  heart  beat  faster ; 
the  consciousness  of  another  acquaintance  sent  a 
thrill  of  delight  through  my  heart. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  I  began  apologetically. 
"Weren't  you  the  teacher  of  the  Talmud  Torah 

of » 

CvV 

The  machine  stopped  abruptly  with  a  click,  and 
raising  his  head  inquisitively  he  said  in  a  soft  tone: 
"And  who  are  you  from  home?  Sit  down,  please." 
He  wiped  the  dust  from  a  chair  without  a  back, 
remarking:  "I  can  see  that  you  are  not  one  of  the 
common  people." 

I  told  him  who  I  was. 

"Shrolke!"  He  sprang  up  with  joy.  "I  am  so 
glad  to  see  you — as  my  own  child.  Shone  Zion! 
They  told  me  that  you  went  to  the  gymnasium, 
and  that  you  were  baptised  long  ago.  May  your 
enemies  bite  off  their  tongues  for  uttering  such 
calumnies!" 

"And  how  long  have  you  been  here?"  I  asked. 

"About  eight  years.  I  have  tried  everything, 
but  I  find  button-holing  the  best  business  for  me. 
And  why  did  I  leave  home?"  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  answering  a  question  I  had  in  my  mind. 
"The  town  burned  down  a  second  time  and  left 


306  The  Fugitive 

me  without  a  position.  What  could  I  do  at  home  ? 
I  sailed  for  America." 

After  he  had  urged  me  a  number  of  times  to  call 
at  his  house,  or  if  I  did  not  care  to  honour  him 
in  that  way,  at  least  to  call  at  Saturday's  service 
in  Shool,  I  promised  to  see  him  again,  and  left  him 
clicking  at  his  machine. 

Coming  into  the  street,  I  lifted  my  eyes  to  read 
another  sign.  I  had  some  experience  now,  and 
knew  that  not  everything  on  the  sign  was  true. 
However,  noticing  a  placard  in  a  window  that  read, 
"Ten  thousand  hands  wanted,"  and  realising  that 
I  could  supply  two  of  these,  I  opened  the  door  of 
the  shop. 

"Any  work?"  I  asked. 

Here  again  I  found  one  man  bent  almost  double 
over  a  sewing-machine  and  pushing  a  piece  of  skin 
under  the  needle. 

"No,"  he  answered. 

"Whrr — whrr — whrr — rrrr,"  the  machine  whirled 
and  hummed. 

I  pointed  to  the  placard  in  the  window. 

He  glanced  at  me,  scrutinising  me  from  the 
crown  of  my  head  to  the  narrow-pointed  tips  of 
my  foreign  shoes,  and  laughed.  "Oh,  I  see  you're  a 
'greener.'  Of  course  I  want  ten  thousand  hands 
to  wear  my  gloves." 

I  went  to  my  lodging  and  stretched  myself  upon 
my  bed,  lost  in  a  sea  of  despairing  thoughts. 


CHAPTER  IV 
IN  A  "SWEAT-SHOP" 

THE  same  evening  I  had  a  long  consultation  with 
Mr.  Takiff  and  Malke  (her  husband  being  out  for 
business  most  of  the  time),  and  though  the  latter 
strenuously  objected  and  the  former  grumbled  that 
the  handicraft  of  a  plain  workman  was  altogether 
unbecoming  for  me,  I  decided  to  learn  shirt-making 
at  Mr.  Levando's.  I  realised  that  at  present  I 
could  not  depend  on  my  knowledge  of  languages 
to  make  a  living. 

Mr.  Levando's  shirt  factory  was  on  the  third 
floor  of  a  rickety  old  frame  house  among  the  tall 
tenements  of  Suffolk  Street,  in  the  heart  of  New 
York's  Jewry.  The  dingy  building,  once  red,  but 
now  the  colour  of  the  gutters,  stood  prominent 
among  the  other  buildings  by  reason  of  its  very 
humbleness.  Under  one  of  the  windows  was 
nailed  an  unassuming  square  sign  bearing  the 
inscription:  "D.  Levando,  shirt  manufacturer." 

After  jumping  over  a  number  of  little  ones  that 
blocked  the  passage,  rolling  about  like  kittens,  I 
reached  the  factory.  It  occupied  a  room  perhaps 
fifteen  feet  square,  with  two  windows,  both  on  the 
same  side.  The  seven  sewing-machines  filled  the 

3°7 


308  The  Fugitive 

room  with  a  whirring  noise  that  made  the  windows 
and  the  door  tremble. 

At  sight  of  me  Mr.  Levando  dropped  the  shirt 
on  which  he  was  working  and  came  forward  with 
a  beam  of  welcome  in  his  eyes.  "Well!"  he  said 
with  a  sigh,  "though  it  grieves  me  to  see  a  univer- 
sity graduate  taking  up  a  handicraft,  I'll  be  glad  to 
teach  you  the  trade,  since  you  can  do  nothing 
better." 

While  he  was  speaking  I  glanced  at  the  operators. 
There  were  two  boys,  Mr.  Levando's  sons,  whom 
I  knew — Daniel,  a  boy  of  sixteen,  with  disorderly 
dark-brown  hair  and  dreamy  brown  eyes,  and 
Jacob,  an  older  boy  of  rather  commonplace  appear- 
ance ;  a  scholarly  looking  young  man  with  a  scanty 
beard  and  big  black  eyes;  and  four  girls. 

"  But  one  consolation  I  can  give  you — your 
co-workers  here  belong  to  the  same  class  you  do," 
he  went  on  gloomily. 

"That  young  man  with  the  small  beard" — he 
lowered  his  voice — "held  a  rabbinical  position  for  over 
two  years,  and  has  read  Spinoza  and  Kant  at  that. 
My  two  boys  were  both  bright  students  at  home,  and 

here "  He  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but 

instead  wiped  away  a  tear. 

"What  can  I  do?"  he  resumed  in  a  stifled  tone. 
"They  must  help  me  till  I  am  able  to  support  my 
family  without  their  assistance.  We  have  been 
here  only  two  years,  and  taking  into  consideration 
my  limited  experience  in  this  business,  as  well  as 


In  a  "Sweat-Shop"  309 

my  foreign  tongue,  I  have  done  very  well  indeed. 
But  my  heart  bleeds  when  I  think  of  their  being 
cut  off  from  education,  for  which  they  have  aspired 
and  striven  so  hard." 

He  paused ;  his  grief  made  me  forget  my  own ;  the 
noisy  hum — human  and  metallic — told  me  more 
than  he  could  express. 

"This  is  the  fruit  of  Russian  kindness,"  he  added 
ironically. 

The  next  day  I  started  on  my  new  career.  Daniel, 
Mr.  Levando's  youngest  son,  was  my  instructor. 
After  a  few  days'  practice  I  was  able  to  work  and 
talk  at  the  same  time.  I  found  the  small  company 
exceedingly  pleasant.  Occasionally  we  would 
indulge  in  long  discussions.  We  talked  philosophy, 
poetry,  religion,  economics — of  Russia  (with  a 
pang  at  my  heart),  of  her  literature,  of  her  Jews, 
and  of  her  inhumanity. 

Daniel  Levando  was  of  a  quiet  disposition;  he 
always  looked  sad  and  dreamy.  His  eyes  showed 
that  he  was  keenly  critical,  but  the  lower  part  of 
his  face  told  that  he  was  easily  moved  by  emotions 
— by  pity,  sympathy,  love.  Though  his  profile, 
his  thoughtfulness,  and  his  peculiar  sadness  showed 
his  Hebrew  lineage  clearly  enough,  his  type  was 
not  purely  Semitic. 

When  he  was  not  working  he  was  thinking  deeply. 
This  struck  me  as  odd,  considering  that  he  was 
scarcely  sixteen  years  old,  though  to  be  sure  his 
steady,  penetrating  look  was  of  one  ten  years  his 


310  The  Fugitive 

senior.  However,  he  was  the  fastest  hand  in  tne 
shop.  His  hands  were  small  and  soft,  of  the 
artistic  type ;  observing  them,  no  one  would  suspect 
that  he  had  ever  done  manual  work.  There  was 
only  one  blister  on  his  right  palm  (from  cutting 
cloth),  and  he  used  to  say  hopefully:  "This  will 
disappear  in  two  weeks  when  I  stop  using  the 
knife." 

His  silence  at  times  was  intense,  but  a  close 
observer  would  have  detected  lines  of  eloquence  in 
that  tightly  closed  mouth.  Most  people  are  silent 
because  they  have  nothing  to  say;  some  keep  quiet 
because  they  have  too  much  to  say.  Like  a  volcano 
they  burn  inside,  and  emit  fire  and  lava  only  at 
intervals.  When  Daniel  began  to  speak  he  was 
changed  into  a  different  being.  His  brown  eyes 
shot  fire,  his  usually  calm  face  glowed  with  a  fine 
heat,  and  his  body  fairly  quivered  from  nervous 
emotion.  Every  argument  came  from  sincere  con- 
viction, every  word  from  the  depths  of  his  heart. 
As  soon  as  he  ceased  talking  he  would  work  on 
quietly,  without  uttering  a  word — thinking  and 
dreaming. 

Any  one  who  would  have  met  young  Daniel 
rambling  in  the  Ghetto,  his  head  slightly  dropped 
and  looking  abstractedly  in  the  shop  windows,  or 
studying  the  ground  as  he  walked,  would  perhaps 
have  taken  him  for  a  disciple  of  Fagin  looking  for 
spoil.  Few  indeed  would  have  suspected  that  the 
poor  little  martyr,  sauntering  about  the  sordid 


In  a  "Sweat-Shop"  311 

Ghetto,  was  thinking  of  something  higher  than 
earthly  things !  But  that  boy  did  think,  as  I 
found  out  from  his  talk,  and  was  pondering  on 
difficult  problems  of  religion,  philosophy,  and 
economics,  and  I  learned,  too,  that  he  wrote  beau- 
tiful verses  in  the  sacred  tongue,  which  was  his 
favourite  language. 

When  Daniel  would  lose  himself  in  some  re  very, 
bent  over  the  whirring  machine,  the  "professional 
Rabbi,"  as  we  called  Mr.  Rabbinowitz,  would 
nudge  him  and  say:  "Enough  of  your  dreams  and 
reveries,  Daniel.  Be  a  business  man  like  your 
father;  no  dreaming  in  practical  America.  Here 
the  dollar  is  the  best  dream,  if  you  wake  up  and 
find  it  a  reality.  Work,  Dan,  work;  you  will  make 
a  shrewd  business  man  some  day;  you  have  enough 
ambition  and  brains." 

To  me  he  would  whisper:  "Russia  lost  a  poet, 
perhaps  a  novelist  like  Turgenieff,  in  this  youth." 

Several  months  passed,  full  of  exhausting 
work,  but  made  almost  pleasant  by  agreeable  com- 
panionship. I  had  almost  become  accustomed  to 
the  sweat-shop  and  to  work  with  my  hands,  but  I 
felt  that  the  machine  was  gradually  undermining 
my  constitution.  My  cheeks  faded,  and  I  coughed 
quite  often,  especially  at  night.  I  realised  I  ought 
to  give  up  shirt-making,  but  at  the  same  time  I 
felt  it  discreet  not  to  do  so  until  I  saw  better  pros- 
pects ahead. 

Mr.  Levando  sold  most  of  his  product  to  one  firm, 


312  The  Fugitive 

Mark  Fetter  &  Company,  prominent  wholesale 
dealers  in  men's  furnishing  goods,  and  the  tenement 
where  the  Levando  family  worked  and  lived  was 
owned  by  the  head  of  the  firm,  Mark  Fetter,  a 
German  Jew.  This  firm  was  far  from  popular  with 
the  Levandos.  "I  would  rather  go  to  a  pack  of 
wild  dogs  than  on  these  errands,"  Daniel  would 
often  confide  to  me  when  his  father  sent  him  to 
deliver  shirts.  And  Daniel's  opinion  was  the 
opinion  of  his  father  and  brother. 

One  warm  afternoon  in  the  early  fall,  when  we 
were  driving  our  machines  at  full  speed,  Mr.  Levando 
returned  from  a  call  upon  Mark  Fetter  &  Company 
in  a  very  happy  frame  of  mind.  "I  have  a  big 
order,  and  I  hope  we  shall  have  steady  work  all 
winter,"  he  announced  joyfully  as  soon  as  he  was 
in  the  shop. 

"Were  you  at  Fetter's?"  asked  his  eldest  son. 

Mr.  Levando's  happiness  subsided  very  suddenly. 
"Yes.  He  tried  to  squeeze  us  again." 

"Oh,  that  Mark  Fetter  !"  muttered  Daniel.  "  I'd 
rather  starve  than  take  work  from  that  fellow." 

"Daniel,"  replied  the  father  softly,  "you  know 
how  much  I  love  that  haughty  fool  with  the  glasses, 
but  what  can  we  do  at  present?  He  buys  most  of 
our  goods,  and  we  must  endure  him  till  we  have 
worked  ourselves  up  a  little,  and  then  we  can  shake 
him  off  entirely." 

"Whrrr — whrrr — whrrr — rrr — whzzz, "  went  the 
machines,  and  we  fell  to  work  again  at  full  speed. 


In  a  **  Sweat-Shop  "  313 

One  of  the  girls,  about  seventeen  and  very  pretty, 
began  to  sing  a  popular  love  song.  Several  of  us 
tried  to  join  in,  but  she  sang  so  much  better  than 
any  of  us  that  we  stopped  and  let  her  carry  the 
song  alone.  It  brought  back  to  me  recollections 
that  were  sweetly  painful,  and  unconsciously  I  let  my 
foot  rest  quietly  on  the  treadle.  The  singer,  how- 
ever, worked  on  automatically  as  she  poured  forth 
her  soul  in  the  song. 

"Stop!"  cried  Mr.  Levando  suddenly. 

The  song  broke  off  abruptly,  and  we  all  looked 
up.  A  tall,  solidly  built  man,  with  a  hooked  nose 
and  piercing  black  eyes  that  glared  behind  glasses, 
stood  by  the  door,  like  a  tyrannical  general  survey- 
ing an  army.  He  was  bandy-legged,  with  a  crop  of 
curly  jet-black  hair,  bushy  black  mustache,  and 
narrow  forehead.  He  looked  fiercely  around  him 
without  a  stir,  not  even  a  bow  to  Mr.  Levando. 

"Good  afternoon,  Mr.  Fetter."  The  "boss" 
bowed  obsequiously,  but  the  visitor  did  not  respond 
by  even  so  much  as  a  nod  of  his  head. 

"How  many  dozen  shirts  do  you  make  a  day, 
Levando?"  asked  Mr.  Fetter  superciliously,  his 
glance  not  upon  the  one  he  addressed,  but  wandering 
about  the  room,  scrutinising  everything  and  every- 
body in  the  small  shop. 

Mr.  Levando  answered  humbly.  Then  he  added : 
"  You  buy  most  of  them,  and  the  rest  I  sell  to  another 
house." 

"You  Russians  want  the  earth  with  the  fence 


314  The  Fugitive 

around  it,"  Mr.  Fetter  said  harshly.  "When  one 
gives  you  one  hair  you  want  the  whole  beard — hey, 
Pullack?"  (The  German  Jews  and  their  American 
extraction  call  any  co-religionist  Pullack  who  was 
not  fortunate  enough  to  have  been  born  in  Ger- 
many.) 

"  I  gave  you  the  first  ten  dollars  to  buy  material," 
he  continued,  "and  pledged  my  credit  for  your 
machinery  and  tools,  and  rented  you  these  rooms 
for  twenty-two  dollars  which  are  worth  twenty-five 
dollars  at  least,  with  the  clear  understanding  that 
you  must  not  sell  your  goods  to  any  one  else.  I 
found  out  the  other  day  that  you  sell  goods  to 
another  firm  at  the  same  prices  you  do  to  me." 
He  spoke  cruelly  and  moved  his  fierce  black  eyes 
right  and  left. 

"But  judge  for  yourself,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Levando 
in  self -justification.  "We  made  no  agreement  to 
this  effect,  and  how  could  I  possibly  make  a  decent 
living  for  my  family  by  depending  solely  upon  you  ? 
And  your  prices  are  so  low." 

"One,  two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  seven  hands," 
Mr.  Fetter  counted  off,  pointing  at  each  one  with  his 
finger,  on  which  glittered  a  costly  diamond  ring. 
"  What  do  you  want  all  these  people  for  ?  Your  two 
sons  and  a  girl  would  make  just  enough  for  my  use, 
and  I  think  you  could  make  a  respectable  living  and 
have  herring  and  potatoes  to  your  heart's  con- 
tent, especially  by  this  cheap  rent  you  pay  me." 

"  But,  Mr.  Fetter,"  pleaded  the  other  in  humilia- 


In  a  "Sweat-Shop"  315 

tion,  and  tears  stood  in  his  grayish-blue  eyes,  "you 
know  well  enough  what  low  prices  you  pay  me. 
Lately  you  have  pressed  the  prices  down  so  far 
that  I  can  scarcely  make  a  living  by  the  work  of 
all  of  us."  A  tear  trickled  down  the  sweater's  face 
into  his  thick  black  beard. 

"Why,  your  boys  make  about  eight  dollars  a 
week,  you  told  me,  and  your  work  is  worth  about 
the  same.  Isn't  that  enough  for  a  livelihood  ?  "  Mr. 
Fetter  asked  this  with  an  air  of  astonishment,  as  he 
might  wonder  at  the  income  of  the  Rothschilds  not 
being  enough  for  a  family's  support.  "Did  you 
make  more  in  Russia  or  Poland,  wherever  the  devil 
you  came  from?" 

"Oh,  in  Russia,"  sighed  Mr.  Levando,  as  if  that 
word  wounded  him — "in  Russia  I  had  my  own 
houses,  and  did  not  have  to  pay  twenty-two  dollars 
for  five  small  rooms." 

"You  Pullacks  become  actually  wild  when  you 
come  over  to  this  country.  No  wonder  the  Czar  is 
driving  you  people  out.  You  wish  to  grab  every- 
thing— everything.  Have  you  ever  lived  in  a  house 
in  the  country  where  you  came  from  with  such  big 
windows  as  this — hey?  Here  you  want  nice  car- 
pets and  nice  stoves  and  perhaps  a  piano,  too.  All 
your  people  are  a  lot  of  Schnorrers  [beggars],  one  as 
bad  as  the  other." 

We  all  kept  our  faces  down  and  our  feet  pressing 
the  treadles  softly — all  except  Daniel,  who  had  been 
cutting  a  thickly  folded  pad  of  linen.  He  now  laid 


316  The  Fugitive 

down  his  long  cutter's  knife  and  moved  about  rest- 
lessly, his  face  glowing  with  intense  agitation. 

"How  much  do  you  make  a  week?"  Mr.  Fetter 
asked  of  our  prima  donna,  who  blushed  and  looked 
up  at  the  "boss."  He  gave  her  a  wink,  which  she 
evidently  interpreted  "higher  price,"  but  as  half  a 
dollar  was  a  big  sum  to  her,  she  answered:  "Six 
dollars  and  a  half." 

"YouPullack!  Schnorrer!"  Mr.  Fetter  shouted 
indignantly,  as  if  he  would  play  philanthropist. 
"You  only  pay  six-fifty  to  such  a  big  grown  girl, 
and  you  wish  to  become  a  millionaire  and  have  a 
piano  in  your  house — hey?" 

"But  how  can  I  pay  more  when  the  prices  I  get 
for  my  goods  are  so  low?  Raise  the  prices  on  my 
shirts,  and  I'll  raise  wages."  Mr.  Levando's  face 
grew  red  with  subdued  anger. 

"A  discount  of  four  per  cent,  will  be  my  terms 
for  your  goods  henceforth.  Who  will  buy  of  you 
shabby  Pullack,  and  who  will  understand  your 
broken  English  and  jabbering  German?" 

I  noticed  that  Daniel's  face  burned  and  that  he 
quivered  in  every  limb. 

"  But  how  can  I  live  ?  The  prices  are  low  enough 
as  they  are,"  the  poor  "sweater"  said  imploringly. 

"Well,"  said  Mr.  Fetter  in  a  slow,  staccato-like 
tone,  "if  you  don't  agree  I'll  bundle  you  out  with 
your  cockroaches,  take  away  the  machines,  and  put 
in  some  other  lousy  Pull— 

"You  dirty  scoundrel!     Get  out  of   here!   and 


In  a  "  Sweat-Shop  "  317 

quick!"  Daniel  shouted,  jumping  up,  with  his  cut- 
ter's knife  flashing  in  his  trembling  hand  like  a 
sword.  He  looked  fierce,  almost  wild — like  a  young 
Italian  bandit. 

"  Daniel !"  cried  his  father  in  consternation. 

Mr.  Fetter  stepped  toward  the  door  in  alarm. 
"Keep  that  dog  off,"  he  ordered  with  a  sneer. 

"Get  out,  or "  shrieked  the  raging  youth. 

"I'll  teach  you  a  lesson,"  Mr.  Fetter  said  fiercely 
between  his  teeth  and  rushed  out. 

Perfect  quiet  reigned  in  the  shop.  No  one 
uttered  a  word.  Mr.  Levando  remained  standing, 
speechless,  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  his  skull-cap 
pushed  back,  exposing  his  high  and  broad  forehead, 
on  which  wrinkles  appeared  and  disappeared,  and 
his  shrewd,  almond-shaped  grayish-blue  eyes  filled 
with  tears.  His  eldest  son,  being  of  a  very  peace- 
ful nature,  looked  a  little  angry  with  his  younger 
brother  for  his  rashness,  but  there  was  at  the  same 
time  some  satisfaction  in  his  eyes.  Fannie,  our 
prima  donna,  stole  admiring  glances  through  the 
corners  of  her  eyes  at  Daniel,  and  all  of  us  regarded 
him  with  a  new  respect  in  which  there  was  a  little 
of  fear.  He  sat  down  in  his  chair  and  leaned  his 
head  on  his  bare  arm,  the  knife  still  clenched  in  his 
hand,  and  his  tears  flowed  profusely  upon  the  table 
littered  with  pieces  of  linen  and  muslin. 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  END  OF  THE  SWEAT-SHOP 

THE  following  morning,  just  after  we  had  sat 
down  to  work,  two  men  opened  the  door  and  asked 
for  David  Levando.  Mr.  Levando,  who  was  stooping 
over  a  large  bundle  of  finished  goods  which  he  was 
preparing  for  delivery,  straightened  up,  a  trifle 
frightened,  and  asked  what  was  their  wish.  The 
younger  of  the  two  men  said  he  was  a  lawyer, 
and  that  his  companion  was  a  constable,  and  there- 
upon he  produced  a  writ  of  replevin.  Mr.  Levando 
stared  dazedly  at  the  two,  and  the  rest  of  us  sat 
bewildered,  with  our  feet  motionless  on  the  treadles. 
Daniel  was  the  first  to  ask  the  attorney  to  explain 
what  the  trouble  was,  to  whose  question  the  latter 
explained  very  explicitly:  "Mark  Fetter,  who  holds 
a  chattel  mortgage  on  all  of  your  belongings,  re- 
plevins the  goods  instead  of  commencing  foreclosure 
proceedings." 

"  But,  if  you  please,"  the  poor  mortgagor  pleaded 
with  the  lawyer,  "  I  only  owe  Mr.  Fetter  forty-five 
dollars  on  this  mortgage,  and  my  machines  and  other 
goods  are  well-nigh  worth  one  thousand  dollars." 

"Well,  you  will  have  the  chance  to  prove  this  in 
court,"  the  attorney  replied  with  a  smile,  as  if  to 

318 


The  End  of  the  Sweat-Shop  319 

say:  "I  kn©w  your  tricks."  "I  have  got  the  notes 
in  my  possession,  and  they  show  an  indebtedness  of 
five  hundred  and  seventy-three  dollars,  besides  inter- 
est at  8  per  cent,  for  one  year  and  three  months." 

"But  I  have  paid  all  this  but  forty-five  dollars. 
It  was  deducted  from  my  bills  when  I  delivered 
goods  to  him.  The  interest  was  figured  in  the  prin- 
cipal when  he  loaned  me  the  money."  There  were 
tears  in  the  eyes  of  the  unfortunate  "sweater." 

"Well,  you'll  have  your  say  in  court,"  the 
attorney  replied  shortly.  And  turning  to  the  con- 
stable he  said:  "Call  up  your  men  and  begin 
to  pack  up." 

The  constable  opened  the  door  and  shouted  down 
the  stairs:  "Oh,  Bill!  Come  up!"  Two  men 
immediately  appeared. 

"  Youse  ladies  and  gentlemen  will  have  to  get  up," 
the  constable  said,  turning  to  us  operators. 

All  of  us  arose  instantly ;  some  of  us  trembled,  for 
the  fear  of  legal  authority  generated  by  Russian 
tyranny  and  oppression  was  still  strong  in  those  of 
us  who  were  not  long  from  our  native  land  of  bar- 
barism. We  stood  huddled  together  in  a  corner, 
full  of  pity  and  sympathy  for  our  poor  employer, 
who  remained  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room, 
with  his  skull-cap  on  the  back  of  his  head,  his  hands 
clasped  in  front  of  him,  and  tears  gathering  in  his 
almond-shaped  eyes. 

"You  may  still  have  the  goods,"  said  the  lawyer 
philanthropically,  "if  you  pay  us  the  full  amount 


320  The  Fugitive 

of  these  notes,  and  for  your  sake  I'll  throw  off  half 
the  interest." 

"But  I  only  owe  him  forty-five  dollars!"  Mr. 
Levando  returned  imploringly.  "And  even  those 
forty-five  dollars  I  can't  pay  him  to-day.  We 
agreed  that  Mr.  Fetter  should  deduct  this  sum 
from  the  next  five  bills  of  goods." 

"Well,  you'll  tell  your  tale  in  court,"  the  lawyer 
responded  nonchalantly.  "Hurry  up  and  get 
these  things  out,"  he  said  to  the  constable  and 
his  assistant. 

While  we  were  all  watching  them  carry  out  Mr. 
Levando's  machines — our  bread-winners — a  police- 
man entered  and  asked  for  Daniel.  The  officer  read 
to  the  trembling  youth  a  warrant  which  charged 
him  with  assault  with  intent  to  kill.  A  sad  smile 
played  on  the  boy's  lips  as  the  officer  took  him  by 
the  arm  and  led  him  away. 

Mr.  Levando  left  all  his  belongings  to  the  mercy 
of  the  constable  and  followed  the  officer  and  his  son. 
And  a  short  while  later  the  little  sweat-shop  was 
quiet — without  a  whirr  of  a  machine,  without  a  click, 
without  the  sound  of  a  voice — quiet  and  empty ! 


CHAPTER  VI 
I  APPLY  FOR  AID  AND  GET  SOMETHING  ELSE 

IN  the  afternoon  I  went  to  Mr.  Levando's  home. 
He  was  utterly  exhausted  from  running  about  to 
procure  the  release  of  his  son,  whose  bail  had  been 
fixed  at  one  thousand  dollars.  Those  of  his  friends 
who  were  willing  to  give  bail  had  no  property,  and 
those  who  had  feared  to  stake  it.  The  family  was  a 
picture  of  distress.  Mrs.  Levando  lay  on  a  couch, 
moaning  and  crying;  the  oldest  son  sat  helplessly 
on  the  arm  of  a  rocking-chair,  with  his  head  drooped 
and  his  hands  clasped  around  his  knees,  and  Mr. 
Takiff  puffed  at  his  pipe  and  cursed  the  "golden 
land,"  its  people  and  its  laws. 

"Blazes  to  this  country  with  her  justice!"  he 
complained  bitterly.  "  It's  worse  than  Russia " 

"A  thousand  times  worse,"  struck  in  Mrs.  Le- 
vando. 

"Who  ever  heard,"  resumed  Mr.  Takiff  wrath- 
fully,  "that  a  boy  of  seventeen  years  should  be 
locked  up  under  one  thousand  dollars  bail?" 

Mrs.  Levando  groaned,  "Oi,  my  dear  child — my 
Daniel,  he  will  have  to  stay  in  jail  overnight ! "  and 
she  burst  anew  into  a  flood  of  tears. 

"And  he  says  America  is  a  good  country."  Mr. 
321 


322  The  Fugitive 

Takiff  turned  to  his  brother-in-law,  his  eyes  full  of 
anger. 

"I  don't  blame  this  country  at  all,"  said  David 
Levando  calmly.  "It  is  that  rascal,  Mark  Fetter, 
who  is  bad.  He  wants  to  ruin  us.  Well,  we'll  start 
over  again.  Let  us  suppose  we  have  just  landed 
here,  and  Daniel  is  kept  back  for  some  reason  or 
other  at  Castle  Garden.  A  few  days  will  pass  by 
and  we'll  be  ourselves  again."  Though  despair 
dwelt  in  every  feature  of  his  countenance,  he  forced 
a  smile. 

"What's  the  use  of  talking  to  him?"  said  his 
wife  disconsolately,  turning  to  me  and  her  brother. 
"One  way  or  the  other,  he  will  always  find  some 
justification  for  this  country." 

"And  you  claim  to  be  a  pious  Jewess,"  said  Mr. 
Levando,  with  an  attempt  to  be  humorous.  "  Does 
not  the  Talmud  say,  '  Just  as  we  praise  God  for  His 
goodness,  we  should  also  praise  Him  for  His  un- 
kindness'?" 

I  slipped  out  of  this  house  of  sorrow  and  walked 
along  Canal  Street,  thinking  how  I  could  be  of 
some  assistance  to  them.  First  the  idea  of  my 
helping  them  seemed  absurd,  as  I  had  only  a  dollar 
and  some  cents  in  my  possession.  Then  a  hopeful 
thought  cleared  the  gloom  from  my  mind.  "The 
Jews  in  general  have  always  been  charitable." 
But  to  whom  could  I  apply?  I  scarcely  knew 
any  one.  Of  course  I  had  heard  of  Jewish  philan- 
thropists in  New  York,  but  how  could  I  reach  those 


I  Apply  for  Aid  and  Get  Something;  Else      323 

magnanimous  men  ?  Then  I  thought  of  the  rabbis. 
Surely  I  could  find  some  rabbi  who  would  help 
Mr.  Levando,  with  a  recommendation  at  least,  or 
influence  Mark  Fetter  to  drop  his  proceedings. 

I  had  heard  of  Doctor  Fuchs,  who  was  the  rabbi 
of  a  gorgeous  uptown  synagogue,  and  who  was 
renowned  for  his  erudition.  I  determined  to  apply 
to  him  for  assistance.  If  he  won't  help  he  won't 
harm,  I  assured  myself.  On  looking  up  his  address 
in  the  Directory  I  found  he  lived  far  uptown,  and 
my  capital  was  so  scanty  that  I  could  hardly  afford 
to  spend  ten  cents  for  car-fare.  I  hesitated  long 
before  I  decided  to  take  a  Third  Avenue  elevated 
train.  "If  I  do  not  find  the  Rabbi  it  means  ten 
cents  wasted,"  I  reflected,  and  started  out  on  foot. 
I  walked  several  squares  and  stopped.  "Nearly 
ninety  squares. "  I  hesitated  and  again  fumbled  the 
"dime"  in  my  pocket,  whirled  it,  fondled  it,  and 
unconsciously  began  climbing  the  stairs  to  the 
elevated  station.  A  minute  later  I  pushed  a  nickel 
through  the  ticket  window. 

Sitting  in  the  car  and  gazing  out  at  the  flying 
buildings,  I  was  startled  by  the  thought  that  I 
had  not  changed  my  collar  and  that  my  clothes  did 
not  look  decent.  But  I  had  no  other  clothes.  I 
was  poor,  and  "poverty  is  no  disgrace,"  is  a  saying 
among  the  poor,  and  thus  found  some  comfort. 

Finally  the  conductor  choked  down  his  throat  the 
name  of  my  station.  I  got  off  and  slowly  descended 
the  stairs  leading  to  the  street.  I  walked  slowly 


324  The  Fugitive 

along,  looking  for  the  number  of  Doctor  Fuchs's 
residence.  The  neighbourhood  gave  every  evidence 
of  being  fashionable.  Having  lived  about  a  year 
in  the  filthy,  narrow  streets  of  the  Ghetto,  I  felt  as  if 
I  had  no  right  to  breathe  the  air  of  this  region  or 
to  tramp  on  its  clean  sidewalks.  In  that  year  I 
had  lost  all  my  manly  pride,  my  courage,  my 
self-possession;  a  capital  "I"  was  no  longer  a 
pronoun  for  me. 

I  walked  as  if  I  were  treading  on  forbidden  ground. 
When  I  noticed  a  pretty  girl  looking  through  the 
window  between  the  lattice  of  costly  curtains,  or  a 
well-dressed  man  descending  the  broad,  clean  stairs 
of  his  mansion  and  puffing  at  his  fragrant  cigar,  I 
was  inclined  to  bow  and  beg  pardon  for  intruding 
upon  the  high  personage. 

I  found  the  house  that  I  sought,  but  its 
elegance  frightened  me,  so  I  walked  past  it  to 
the  next  corner.  Then  I  plucked  up  courage, 
and  returning  I  ascended  the  stoop  and  timidly 
pulled  the  knob  of  the  door-bell.  I  heard  its 
tinkling  deep  within  the  house,  and  an  echo,  I 
thought,  sounded  deep  within  me.  I  felt  awkward, 
and  stood  before  the  house  like  a  tramp  waiting 
for  a  sandwich. 

The  door  opened,  and  a  pretty  German  servant- 
girl  (I  could  not  help  thinking  of  her  beauty)  stuck 
out  her  head  and  glanced  at  me,  and  asked  me  what 
I  wished.  In  much  embarrassment  I  told  her  that 
I  wished  to  see  Reverend  Doctor  Fuchs.  She 


I  Apply  for  Aid  and  Get  Something  Else      325 

showed  me  into  the  reception  room  and  disap- 
peared with  my  request. 

In  a  few  minutes,  which  seemed  double  their 
number,  a  middle-aged,  obese  woman  of  medium 
height,  with  a  flat  nose,  double  chin,  and  green 
eyes,  rustled  into  the  room,  panting  as  she  walked, 
her  diamond  earrings  bobbing  and  twinkling.  She 
contracted  her  eyelids,  as  if  to  get  a  better  look  at 
me,  in  order  to  judge  what  reception  to  give  me. 
Evidently  the  impression  was  not  favourable,  for 
her  face  assumed  a  sour  expression  as  she  said  to 
me:  "Doctor  Fuchs  iss  taking  hiss  avternun  nap 
from  one  to  two." 

"I'll  wait  until  the  Doctor  gets  up,"  I  said  in  a 
humble  tone. 

She  opened  her  mouth  to  respond,  but  closed  it 
without  saying  a  word.  She  then  turned  around 
as  if  to  depart,  but  did  not  go;  she  opened  her 
mouth,  and  closed  it  again  without  speech.  All 
this  increased  my  embarrassment. 

"  Vait  for  him  in  de  liprary,"  she  said  at  last,  and 
drew  a  velvet  curtain  aside. 

I  sat  down  in  the  room  designated  near  the  door, 
with  my  hat  in  both  hands.  She  disappeared,  and 
I  heard  the  rustling  of  her  dress  sweeping  over  the 
thick  velvet  carpet. 

I  began  to  wonder  just  how  to  start  my  tale  of 
woe.  I  also  wondered  what  language  to  use.  At 
length  I  decided  upon  English,  for  I  had  learned 
that  he  was  imported  from  Germany,  and  I  knew 


326  The  Fugitive 

these  German  Jews  preferred  to  speak  English  to 
an  inferior,  and  especially  to  a  Russian  of  their 
race. 

At  the  end  of  the  room  was  a  desk,  behind  which 
stood  two  high  cases  filled  with  hundreds  of  volumes. 
But,  I  observed,  no  Talmud  was  there.  The  library 
opened  into  another  room,  partitioned  by  curtains, 
between  the  folds  of  which  frequently  appeared  a 
flat  nose  and  two  green  eyes. 

I  waited  and  yawned  and  waited.  I  studied  the 
colour  of  the  carpet,  the  wall-paper,  and  counted 
the  books  in  the  two  cases.  I  noticed  a  paper 
lying  on  a  chair  close  to  mine,  and  I  picked  it  up. 
At  this  movement  on  my  part  the  flat  nose  and 
green  eyes  were  again  framed  between  the  curtains. 

Finally,  after  I  had  scrutinised  everything  about 
me,  heavy  steps  reached  my  ears.  I  divined  the 
coming  of  Rabbi  Fuchs.  I  cleared  my  throat, 
passed  my  hand  down  over  the  buttons  of  my 
waistcoat,  passed  my  slim  fingers  through  my  hair 
to  arrange  it  in  poetic  disarrangement,  and  awaited 
his  arrival.  He  appeared  at  the  door  and  measured 
me  from  the  soles  of  my  torn  shoes  to  the  top  of 
my  untrimmed  hair  in  one  glance  from  his  steady, 
cold  eyes.  He  was  a  little  taller  than  his  wife  and 
almost  as  fat,  and  his  grayish  beard  was  closely 
trimmed.  His  nose  was  aquiline,  and  purple  at  the 
end,  which  I  thought  (mistakenly,  perhaps)  resulted 
from  a  too  zealous  worship  of  Bacchus.  He  wore 
a  white  tie  and  a  high  waistcoat,  which — so  my  fancy 


I  Apply  for  Aid  and  Get  Something  Else      327 

struck  me — gave  him  the  full  appearance  of  the 
Almighty's  coachman.  His  forehead  was  originally 
not  high,  but  it  was  heightened  and  broadened  by 
his  partial  baldness. 

I  rose  and  bade  him  "good  afternoon,"  to  which 
he  bowed  perfunctorily. 

He  did  not  ask  me  to  sit  down,  so  I  told  him  my 
story  standing,  expatiating  especially  on  the  high 
position  of  the  Levandos  in  former  days.  He 
listened  as  members  of  his  congregation  listen  to  his 
sermons,  I  thought;  but  he  did  not  fall  asleep. 
He  stood  with  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets, 
unmoved  by  my  tale  of  woe  as  his  congregation  by 
his  lectures,  I  fancied.  Several  times  I  noticed  a 
spasmodic  shake  of  his  head,  as  if  he  wished  to  inter- 
rupt me,  but  he  waited  without  a  word  to  the  end 
of  my  speech.  This  politeness,  flashed  through  my 
mind,  he  had  also  learned  from  his  flock. 

"Oh,  yes,  you  Russians  are  ever  dissatisfied  with 
work  and  look  for  something  easy,"  he  said  coldly. 
"Anarchism,  Socialism,  Nihilism,  and  all  kinds  of 
isms — that's  all  you  care  about.  I  can't  do  anything 
for  you.  There  are  Hebrew  charity  societies  and 
hospitals  which  do  all  they  can  for  paupers  and 
immigrants." 

"  But  you  must  realise,"  I  pleaded,  almost  with 
tears  in  my  eyes,  "the  injustice  of  Mr.  Fetter  in 
trying  to  ruin  this  noble  family,  that  has  worked  in 
a  '  sweat-shop '  in  order  to  make  an  honest  living. 
I  do  not  ask  of  you  anything  but  merely  to  go 


328  The  Fugitive 

and  see  Mr.  Fetter  on  behalf  of  these  unfortunate 
people,  and  he  will  not  be  so  hard  upon  them." 

"I  know  you  Russians,"  he  said  impatiently. 
"Well,  this  you  have  for  your  trouble,"  he  added 
with  a  meaning  smile,  drawing  half  a  dollar  from 
his  pocket  and  handing  it  to  me. 

At  this  I  lost  my  control.  I  spat  on  his  out- 
stretched hand  and  shrieked  at  the  highest  pitch 
of  my  voice:  "Hypocrite!  high-toned  beggar!  I 
ask  no  alms  of  you,  stone-hearted  rabbi  in  Israel !" 
He  grew  as  white  as  the  tie  he  wore  around  his  neck, 
and  his  fat  wife,  who  had  been  watching  us  between 
the  curtains,  rushed  to  the  front  door  and  cried: 
"Police!  Police!" 

An  officer  answered  the  call  with  a  promptness 
that  ought  to  be  recorded  in  the  history  of  the  police 
department. 

"  Dis  Russian  anarchist  vanted  to  sjhoot  my 
husband  if  he  vouldn't  give  him  a  t'ousand  t'alers," 
Mrs.  Fuchs  explained  to  the  officer.  Rabbi  Fuchs 
stood  dumfounded  and  trembling. 

"Come  along — come  along,"  said  the  officer, 
giving  me  a  few  touches  from  his  club.  "We  have 
a  good  place  for  anarchists  who  throw  bombs." 
He  laid  hold  of  my  arm,  gripped  it  tightly,  and  led 
me  out  of  the  house. 

Some  people  appeared  on  the  neighbouring  stoops ; 
servant-girls  stood  in  the  doors  and  windows,  with 
their  aprons  rolled  around  their  clasped  hands, 
looking  at  the  officer  and  his  prisoner.  A  driver 


I  Apply  for  Aid  and  Get  Something  Else      329 

jumped  off  his  wagon,  and  leaving  his  horses  stand- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  street  eagerly  inquired: 
"What's  the  matter?"  An  increasing  crowd  of 
boys  followed  us  excitedly  as  we  walked  toward 
the  corner. 

The  policeman  telephoned  for  another  officer  to 
take  me  to  the  station,  and  while  we  waited  for  his 
arrival  a  large  crowd  gathered  around  us,  asking 
one  another:  "What's  the  matter?"  I  heard 
several  voices  answer:  "An  anarchist. "  "He  was 
going  to  shoot  Doctor  Fuchs." 

I  heard  all  this  as  if  in  a  dream.  I  became  so 
confused  that  I  lost  my  memory  and  did  not  know 
what  had  happened.  A  cold  drizzle  began  to  fall. 
I  kept  my  eyes  on  the  ground  and  wished  for  some 
open  grave  below.  One  of  the  crowd  shouted: 
"Look  at  his  face!  Look  at  his  eyes!  He  shot 
Rabbi  Fuchs!" 

"Did  I?"  I  asked  myself.  I  did  not  know  then. 
Perhaps  I  had  shot  him. 

In  a  comparatively  short  time  another  officer 
arrived  and  took  me  to  the  station.  The  desk- 
sergeant  asked  my  name  (which  I  had  given  as  Russ) 
and  inquired  regarding  my  nationality.  They 
searched  my  pockets,  in  which  they  found  a  dollar 
and  a  few  cents.  Then  I  was  locked  up. 

When  I  sat  down  on  the  bunk  in  my  dark  room 
I  realised  what  had  happened  to  me  that  afternoon. 
My  expectations  were  gone,  and  now  I  was  confined 
in  a  murky  cell  with  a  lot  of  criminals.  Criminals, 


33°  The  Fugitive 

did  I  say?  They  were,  perhaps,  just  as  much 
criminals  as  I. 

How  I  spent  that  night  I  leave  to  the  reader's 
imagination. 

The  next  morning  about  ten  o'clock  I  was  taken 
to  the  police  court  and  there  brought  before  the 
magistrate.  Now  I  could  see  who  my  mates  were. 
On  the  prisoners'  bench  sat  a  thin,  emaciated, 
unwashed,  unkempt  boy,  who  looked  to  be  about 
sixteen  years  of  age,  whereas  according  to  his 
statement  he  was  twenty-two.  He  had  a  bruised 
eye,  which  he  claimed  was  caused  by  the  friendly 
caress  of  the  officer  who  had  arrested  him.  He 
wore  a  tattered  jacket,  and  parts  of  his  bare  body 
were  exposed  through  the  rents  in  his  trousers,  and 
one  big  toe  peeped  curiously  through  a  hole  in  his 
shoe.  This  prisoner  was  accused  of  vagrancy  and 
of  trying  to  "steal"  a  night's  sleep  in  the  corridor 
of  a  fashionable  residence. 

Another  prisoner  was  a  young  woman  about 
twenty-five  years  old  who  wore  a  dark  veil,  through 
which  I  observed,  however,  that  her  face,  though 
handsome,  was  dissipated.  When  she  uttered  the 
word  "Guilty"  to  the  charge  of  vagrancy  and  dis- 
orderly conduct  I  heard  the  echo  of  a  sad  tragedy 
in  her  voice.  Another  victim,  whose  name  was 
Finnigan,  had  tasted  a  little  more  "whishky"  than 
he  could  stand,  which  was  a  crime  under  the  New 
York  code.  There  were  a  few  more  interesting 
prisoners  whom  I  had  no  time  to  study  before  my 


I  Apply  for  Aid  and  Get  Something  Eke      331 

name  was  called  and  I  was  pushed  up  before  the 
magistrate. 

The  prosecutor  read  a  long  list  of  accusations 
against  me  in  a  voice  like  the  conductors'  who  call 
out  streets,  and  I  could  only  catch:  "  What  have  you 
got  to  say  for  yourself?" 

"Not  guilty,"  I  stammered. 

The  officer  who  had  arrested  me  was  called  to  the 
witness-stand  and  stated  all  he  knew,  or  rather  all 
he  did  not  know. 

The  Rabbi  did  not  appear,  so  there  was  no  evidence 
against  me. 

However,  the  judge  dipped  his  pen  in  the  ink- 
stand and,  looking  at  me  over  his  spectacles,  said: 
"Thirty  days  and  costs." 

My  trial  was  finished.  An  officer  tapped  me  on 
the  shoulder  and  told  me  to  follow  him.  In  the 
lobby  my  conductor  stopped  to  talk  with  a  brother 
officer,  and  while  they  chatted  I  noticed  a  news- 
paper of  the  previous  night  on  the  floor.  I  picked 
it  up.  My  eyes  were  instantly  caught  by  the  fol- 
lowing headlines  in  startling  black  letters : 

ANARCHIST    MAKES   ATTEMPT   ON    LIFE    OF 
REVEREND  DOCTOR  FUCHS 

Eminent  Divine  Alive  Only  Because  Revolver 
Failed  to  Work 

OFFICER  BRAVELY  INTERFERES  AND  WOULD-BE  MURDERER 
IS  NOW  SAFELY  BEHIND  PRISON  BARS 


33  2  The  Fugitive 

A  picture  of  a  big  head  covered  with  massive 
hair,  staring  eyes  (which  were  supposed  to  be  mine) , 
and  that  of  a  revolver  followed.  The  revolver 
was  supposed  to  be  the  identical  one  with  which  I 
had  attempted  to  kill  Rabbi  Fuchs.  A  long  three- 
column  article  described  how  I  had  attacked  the 
Rabbi,  how  the  revolver  would  not  go  off,  and  how 
the  officer  heroically  wrested  the  weapon  from  my 
hands.  It  related  also  that  neighbours  for  several 
days  previous  had  noticed  me  loitering  about  the 
Doctor's  house,  and  that  they  had  suspected  the 
"young  man  with  the  long  hair  and  wildly  staring 
eyes"  was  looking  for  mischief;  that  the  officer 
passed  a  number  of  sleepless  nights  in  watching 
the  suspected  anarchist;  that  he  was  standing 
outside  and  waiting  when  the  anarchist  entered 
the  Rabbi's  house;  that  the  anarchist  tried  to 
play  the  old  "insanity  trick"  and  laughed  in  the 
face  of  the  officer ;  that  the  anarchist  was  a  member 
of  a  secret  society  whose  purpose  was  to  blow  up 
Broadway  and  Fifth  Avenue,  and  so  forth,  and  so 
forth.  In  conclusion,  the  writer  stated  that  the 
Russian  Jewish  element  on  the  East  Side,  other- 
wise peaceful  citizens,  must  have  a  dangerous 
gang  of  anarchists  among  them,  and  he  suggested 
that  Levando's  sweat-shop  (for  a  highly  coloured 
account  of  Daniel's  outbreak  had  got  into  print) 
was  very  likely  the  place  of  meeting.  Then  fol- 
lowed a  long  interview  with  one  of  the  city's  most 
prominent  business  men,  who  takes  much  interest 


I  Apply  for  Aid  and  Get  Something  Else      333 

in  Jewish  charities,  Mr.  Mark  Fetter  by  name, 
who  expressed  himself  as  having  knowledge  that 
the  Levandos  were  revolutionists. 

The  officer  finished  his  friendly  chat  and  pulled 
me  after  him  to  another  cell,  where  I  stayed  a 
short  time  before  I  was  taken  to  the  workhouse 
to  serve  out  my  sentence. 


CHAPTER  VII 
AN   OLD   PRI  E  ND 

As  SOON  as  I  was  set  free  I  repaired  to  Mr. 
Levando's  home,  but  found  another  family  in 
their  place.  After  some  inquiries  I  was  informed 
that  some  kind  of  a  settlement  had  been  effected 
between  Mr.  Levando  and  Mr.  Fetter,  and  the  former, 
in  company  with  his  brother-in-law,  had  left  the 
city.  I  did  not  care  to  go  back  to  my  old  boarding- 
place,  for  I  was  utterly  weary  of  Shmunke,  so  I 
found  new  lodgings.  I  was  again  without  friends 
in  the  sordid  Ghetto. 

My  five  weeks  of  imprisonment  had  left  a  deep 
impression  upon  me.  I  had  been  getting  thin 
while  I  worked  at  the  sweat-shop,  and  now  I  began 
to  spit  blood.  I  consulted  a  physician,  who  admon- 
ished me  not  to  take  up  my  old  trade  again.  But 
he  encouraged  me  and  said  there  was  no  immediate 
danger  if  I  should  take  good  care  of  myself. 

One  night,  after  I  had  spent  two  or  three 
hours  in  aimless  wandering,  I  decided  to  go  to  a 
cafe  on  East  Broadway  which  I  frequented  and 
rest  for  a  while  over  a  glass  of  tea.  One  could  get 
here  a  good  glass  of  tea  for  five  cents  and  read 
Russian,  German,  and  English  papers  to  his  heart's 

334 


An  Old  Friend  335 

content;  and  here  one  was  likely  to  meet  at  any 
time  of  the  day  and  before  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing Russian  Jewish  students  who  fled  from  gym- 
nasiums and  universities,  and  some  from  Siberia, 
discussing  Socialism,  Anarchism,  philosophy,  religion, 
and  poetry.  The  restaurant  was  owned  by  a 
Russian,  who,  while  waiting  on  customers,  usually 
took  part  in  all  the  discussions,  and  could  not 
determine  himself  whether  he  was  an  anarchist, 
socialist,  pessimist,  or  philosopher.  He  had  been 
a  student  at  Lodj,  Poland,  and  later  had  tilled  the 
stony  fields  of  Palestine  a  few  years. 

Coming  in  now,  I  found  the  cafe  well  filled.  I 
settled  myself  at  my  favourite  table  in  the  rear, 
ordered  a  cup  of  tea,  and  lighted  my  cigarette.  People 
passed  in  and  out,  but  I  paid  no  attention  to  them. 
The  restaurateur  stood  behind  the  counter  and 
took  part  in  a  discussion  on  literature  which  was 
carried  on  by  several  young  men,  who  dwelt  prin- 
cipally on  Dostoyevski.  Some  compared  him  to 
Victor  Hugo  and  others  to  Edgar  Allan  Poe.  I 
thought  that  this  Russian  novelist  had  some  quali- 
ties of  both,  but  I  said  nothing.  The  same  young 
men  had  discussed  the  same  subject  a  few  nights 
before.  I  took  up  a  paper  and  began  to  read,  but 
occasionally  raised  my  eyes  and  listened  to  the 
discussion.  Presently  when  I  looked  up  my  eyes 
were  caught  immediately  by  a  newcomer  who  had 
just  joined  the  group  of  young  men.  His  back 
was  toward  me,  but  a  glance  at  him  was  sufficient. 


336  The  Fugitive 

I  hurriedly  rose  from  my  chair  and  clapped  my 
hand  upon  his  shoulder. 

"Ephraim!"  I  cried  joyously. 

He  looked  about,  then  sprang  to  his  feet.  "Why, 
Israel!  You  in  America?" 

Without  waiting  for  my  reply,  he  excused  him- 
self, and  we  went  off  to  his  room,  talking  volubly 
all  the  while. 

"  I  thought  you  were  digging  gold  for  the  Czar," 
I  remarked  when  we  had  taken  off  our  hats  and 
settled  into  comfortable  chairs. 

"No,  I  knew  better,"  he  smiled,  "and  thought 
Siberia  would  be  too  cold  for  me." 

He  coughed  violently,  and  took  off  his  glasses, 
which  he  put  carefully  on  his  desk. 

I  observed  his  face  by  the  yellowish  light  of  the 
lamp  that  burned  on  the  desk,  and  a  shudder 
passed  through  me.  It  was  thin  and  haggard;  his 
long  hair  was  neglected;  his  mustache  was  heavy 
and  long,  which  made  his  cheeks  appear  still  more 
hollow.  But  his  eyes  glittered  with  the  same  old 
fire. 

"How  did  you  escape?  How  did  you  come 
here?  What  have  you  been  doing  since?"  I 
showered  questions  at  him. 

"I  have  not  as  many  adventures  to  tell  of  as 
you  imagine,"  Ephraim  said,  feigning  to  smile.  "I 
was  confined  about  seven  months  in  a  dark  and 
filthy  cell,  in  which  big  rats  kept  me  company 
and  had  occasional  fights  over  a  crust  of  bread 


An  Old  Friend  337 

that  the  turnkey  had  brought  me.  They  claimed 
share  and  share  alike,  and  I  never  denied  them 
their  rights. 

"At  first  I  felt  lonesome,  but  after  several  days 
of  confinement  I  grew  accustomed  to  the  foul 
atmosphere,  and  should  not  have  felt  so  bad  had 
they  only  let  me  have  enough  books  to  read.  But 
I  spent  most  of  the  time  in  thinking  and  brooding 
over  ideas  which  I  had  entertained  before  I  was 
locked  up.  I  had  no  hopes  of  seeing  the  light  of  the 
world  again,  and  now  I  wish  I  had  not  seen  it. 
After  all,  prison  life  is  not  so  bad  as  it  is  pictured,  and 
I  think  that  one  with  a  clear  conscience  can  breathe 
more  freely  in  the  oppressive  prison  cells  than  in 
this  open,  large,  and  treacherous  world.  Was  I 
not  more  happy  in  prison  than  you,  who  had  to 
witness  the  bloody  riots — the  disgrace  of  humanity  ? 
I  considered  myself  an  innocent  victim — a  martyr, 
so  to  speak,  who  suffered  for  the  good  of  my  father- 
land. I  loved  Russia  and  her  people,  and  was 
glad  to  make  any  sacrifice  for  them,  thinking  that 
it  would  further  the  cause  of  liberty.  I  admit 
that  I  lived  in  a  delusion,  but  so  long  as  I  was  of 
that  opinion  and  it  made  me  happy,  what  difference 
whether  I  was  deceived  or  otherwise?" 

"So  you  have  at  last  changed  your  view,  and 
you  believe  that  not  truth,  but  anything  we  take 
for  truth,  brings  happiness?"  I  interrupted  him. 

"Well,"  he  answered  a  little  nervously,  "I  see 
you  refer  to  my  religious  views.  But  you  must 


33 8  The  Fugitive 

not  confound  religion  with  material  happiness,  just 
as  you  must  discriminate  between  philosophy  or 
logic  and  poetry.  Religion  is  only  pretended  to  lay 
down  a  certain  hypothesis  by  which  we  reach  truth. 
So  naturally  when  we  discover  the  hypothesis  is 
wrong  the  conclusion  must  similarly  follow.  But 
material  happiness  is  quite  different.  The  enjoy- 
ment of  it  is  the  truth  of  it,  and  so  long  as  we  enjoy, 
it  answers  the  purpose.  For  enjoyment,  and  not 
truth,  is  its  aim. 

"But  I  am  straying  from  my  narrative.  I 
would  rather  have  ended  my  days  in  prison  than 
to  come  out  as  I  did  and  find  the  recompense  which 
the  Russian  people  have  paid  us  for  our  love  for 
them." 

He  paused,  and  his  face  resumed  a  bitter  expres- 
sion. 

"  But  I  did  come  out  after  seven  months  of 
brooding  and  reflection,"  he  resumed.  "There 
was  no  strong  evidence  against  me,  so  I  was  released. 
As  soon  as  I  was  set  free  I  hastened  to  Levinski. 
'He  left  for  Palestine,'  his  housekeeper  told  me. 
I  tried  to  find  friend  after  friend.  '  In  Palestine ' 
or  '  in  America '  were  the  answers  I  got  everywhere. 
I  had  hardly  an  acquaintance  left  in  Kieff.  I 
hardly  knew  what  to  do.  Weak  from  my  long 
confinement,  made  friendless  by  Russian  barba- 
rism, I  grew  despondent  and  thought  of  suicide. 
I  am  ashamed  of  myself  now ;  but  you  must  remem- 
ber the  condition  I  was  in.  I  carried  poison  about 


An  Old  Friend  339 

me  for  days,  but  finally  I  regained  control  of  myself 
and  decided  to  come  to  this  country. 

"My  experiences  the  first  year  in  America  were 
similar  to  the  experiences  you  just  told  me.  I 
made  button-holes  in  a  sweat-shop  by  day  and 
studied  English  at  night.  Then  I  began  to  con- 
tribute articles  to  a  Yiddish  paper  that  paid  me 
a  little  less  than  a  penny  a  line.  I  gained  success 
as  a  jargon  writer.  I  am  also  writing  for  the  Yid- 
dish stage,  and  scrape  a  livelihood  in  all  sorts  of 
intellectual  hack-work.  In  addition  I  gave  English 
lessons  to  some  Russian  emigrants,  who  paid 
poorly  but  who  are  eager  students.  This  finishes 
my  history  to  the  present  day.  No,  I  must  add 
that  I  have  been  promoted  to  the  editorship  of 
my  Yiddish  paper." 

"So  you  are  writing  Yiddish,"  I  laughed,  and 
I  noticed  that  it  hurt  him. 

"Yes,  I  write  and  speak  my  mother  tongue 
with  the  blood  of  my  heart  and  the  energy  of  my 
brain,  and  I  have  succeeded  in  this  kind  of 
literature  better  than  I  had  first  expected.  My 
stories,  my  dramas,  are  all  tragedies.  I  see  noth- 
ing but  tragedies  before  me.  The  world  is  full 
of  them — in  Hester  Street  tenement  houses  and 
Fifth  Avenue  mansions.  Perhaps  some  other 
class  of  readers  would  not  tolerate  me,  but  the 
Russian  Jews  are  so  accustomed  to  tragedy  that 
they  find  nothing  so  real,  nothing  so  true  as  my 
descriptions.  They  bear  the  memory  of  tragedies, 


340  The  Fugitive 

and  witness  tragedies  in  the  New  York  Jewry 
every  day." 

Later  in  the  evening  our  talk  turned  to  religion, 
and  I  was  surprised  that  he  hated  reformed  Judaism 
even  more  than  he  had  hated  orthodox  Judaism 
in  the  old  days  at  Javolin  and  Kieff. 

"So  you  are  against  reformed  Judaism  and  you 
advocate  the  old  belief,"  I  casually  remarked, 
laughing  as  I  said  this. 

He  looked  at  me  seriously  for  a  moment  and 
his  pale  cheeks  coloured.  Lighting  a  cigarette,  he 
puffed  violently  in  silence  for  a  while.  Then  he 
fixed  his  fiery  eyes  upon  me  and,  while  spurts  of 
smoke  issued  rapidly  from  his  mouth,  he  said: 
"Yes,  I  am  against  American  reformed  Judaism  as 
such.  I  don't  object  to  it  as  a  separate  creed,  or 
rather  the  aping  of  a  creed,  but  it  is  not  religion — 
to  be  sure,  not  the  religion  of  Judaism.  Religion, 
and  Judaism  in  particular,  is  poetry — and  nothing 
but  poetry.  Or  rather  it  is  poetry  for  one  and 
science  for  another.  To  the  philosopher,  searcher 
after  truth,  it  is  dry  science  ad  finem,  proved 
by  algebraic  formulas,  and  by  the  process  of 
elimination  gives  a  big  zero.  To  mankind  at 
large,  in  its  present  state  of  development,  it  is 
poetry  pure  and  simple — poetry  which  cannot, 
must  not  be  analysed  by  a  mathematical  process. 
Religion,  no  more  than  the  'Divine  Comedy' 
or  '  Paradise  Lost,'  can  be  reduced  to  prosaic 
accuracy.  For  as  soon  as  we  attempt  to  inquire 


An  Old  Friend  341 

into  their  truth  Dante  and  Milton  become 
maniacs." 

He  spoke  bitterly,  brilliantly,  puffing  at  cigarette 
after  cigarette  and  inhaling  all  the  smoke,  his 
hair  tumbled,  his  eyes  darting  fire,  his  body  all 
aquiver  from  intellectual  passion.  I  listened  to  him 
till  two  o'clock. 

Friendless  as  I  was,  I  was  glad  indeed  to  meet 
Razovski  again.  However,  he  could  offer  me  no 
aid,  so  I  had  to  continue  my  blind  search  for  a 
job.  So  my  financial  condition  grew  acute  and 
despair  began  to  take  hold  of  me. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
ASSISTANCE  COMES  UNEXPECTEDLY 

IT  must  have  been  a  week  later  that,  starting  out 
of  my  room  to  get  my  supper,  I  happened  to  recall 
a  cheap  Jewish  restaurant  that  had  recently  been 
opened  in  Hester  Street,  and  thither  I  decided  to 
go.  In  my  better  days  I  had  been  accustomed  to 
eating  in  restaurants  on  East  Broadway,  but  twenty- 
five  cents  was  the  price  of  a  "regular  supper"  in 
those  eating-places,  and  this  sum  I  now  regarded 
as  extravagant. 

This  restaurant  was  in  the  basement  of  a  six- 
story  tenement  house,  and  though  a  new  establish- 
ment, it  had  won  a  speedy  reputation.  Its  cheap- 
ness was  its  best  advertisement.  I  stopped  before 
a  big  sign  with  yellow  letters  that  read  in  Yiddish: 

"  A  regular  dinner  and  supper,  the 
best  and  most  relishable  Jewish  dishes, 
as  those  in  Poland,  with  a  glass  of  beer 
and  two  cigarettes,  for  gc.  With  chicken, 
ice.  Strictly  kosher." 

I  did  not  care  for  its  being  strictly  kosher,  but  it 
was  strictly  cheap,  which  was  enough  to  attract 
me.  I  looked  through  the  window,  and  finding  the 

342 


Assistance  Comes  Unexpectedly  343 

room  well  filled  with  shabby  people  I  hesitated  to 
enter.  But  the  "90."  on  the  big  sign  was  an 
inducement  I  could  not  withstand,  and  I  went  in 
and  sat  down  at  a  small  table  intended  for  two. 

The  dining-room  was  long  and  narrow,  poorly 
furnished,  and  lighted  by  six  gaslights.  The  waiter, 
or  rather  the  restaurateur  himself,  attended  busily 
to  his  customers,  but  he  passed  my  chair  several 
times  without  paying  any  attention  to  me.  I  was 
hungry,  and  thought  of  leaving  the  place.  But 
the  "QC."  held  me  in  my  chair. 

The  customers  came  and  went.  I  paid  little 
attention  to  any  of  them  till  I  noticed  a  man  in 
a  long,  heavy  ulster  covered  with  snow,  his  hat 
drawn  down  over  his  eyes,  walking  slowly  down 
the  restaurant,  keenly  eying  every  customer.  He 
was  of  medium  height,  with  a  pointed  brown  beard, 
lively  dancing  eyes  that  betokened  shrewdness, 
conceit,  and  suspicion,  and  a  straight  nose  which 
gave  the  owner  a  certain  dignity  of  appearance. 
His  eyes  took  me  in  while  he  was  yet  several  tables 
away.  He  passed  two  or  three  vacant  places  and 
stopped  at  my  table.  He  took  his  big  ulster  off 
and  hung  it  on  the  back  of  his  chair,  and  then, 
without  removing  his  hat,  sat  down,  rubbing  his 
hands  and  emitting  a  soft  sigh. 

"It's  getting  cold,"  he  said  to  me  in  Yiddish. 

"It  is,"  I  answered  abruptly,  for  his  appearance 
had  aroused  my  dislike  and  I  did  not  care  to  talk 
to  him. 


344  The  Fugitive 

" '  Tall-OO-Motor '  is  just  in  time  this  season. 
Has  it  begun  to-day?"  he  remarked  casually, 
rubbing  his  hands  again  and  eying  me  keenly. 
(His  reference  was  to  some  prayer  for  dew  and  rain 
in  Palestine,  which  orthodox  Jews  offer  from  about 
the  middle  of  October  until  Passover.) 

"I  don't  pray,"   I  said  shortly. 

I  glanced  at  him  and  noticed  a  smile  pass  over 
his  lips. 

"Ya,  ya,"  he  said  again,  rubbing  his  hands  and 
passing  them  over  his  face  in  a  pious  manner. 
"Ya,  ya,  Jewish  children  are  straying  off  the 
righteous  path  our  forefathers  marked  out  for 
them."  Here  he  sighed  softly  and  rolled  his  eyes 
ceilingward.  "The  footsteps  of  Moshiach  [the 
Messiah]  are  almost  heard."  He  shook  his  head  as 
if  in  despair,  and  then  quoted  from  the  Talmud: 
"'For  Moshiach  is  to  come  when  Israel  will  become 
wholly  righteous  or  wholly  wicked." 

The  waiter  spared  me  a  reply  by  asking  what 
soup  I  liked  best,  Lokshen  or  Borsch.  I  chose 
the  latter;  my  interlocutor  ordered  the  same, 
remarking,  when  the  waiter  had  departed,  that  it 
was  "a  genuine  Jewish  dish"  which  reminded  him 
of  the  good  old  days  in  God-fearing  Poland,  where 
the  Jews  were  "genuine  Jews."  He  looked  at  me 
with  a  concealed  smile  in  his  dancing  eyes. 

I  was  disgusted  with  his  pious  talk,  and  thought 
to  scare  him  away  by  saying  something  that  a 
pious  Jew  would  consider  Epicurean.  "If  I  had 


Assistance  Comes  Unexpectedly  345 

known  before  that  Borsch  is  genuine  Jewish  I 
would  have  ordered  something  else."  And  I  said 
it  in  a  tone  which  clearly  conveyed  to  him  that  I 
did  not  belong  to  his  class. 

The  waiter  brought  me  the  Borsch,  and  I  hungrily 
began  on  the  sour  soup.  My  unwelcome  table- 
mate  first  washed  his  hands,  according  to  the 
orthodox  ritual.  He  recited  aloud  the  appropriate 
benediction  over  the  bread,  and  took  a  big  bite 
thereof,  trying  to  draw  the  attention  of  other  people 
to  his  piety. 

"Well,"  he  said  to  me  while  I  was  eating,  "you 
mistake  me ;  you  don't  understand  me.  I  was  like 
you  some  time  ago."  Here  he  lowered  his  voice 
and  bent  down  his  head  as  he  continued:  "  It  breaks 
my  heart  to  see  our  brilliant  young  men  who  have 
brains,  education,  talent,  skill,  and  energy  waste 
their  best  days  in  the  dirty  '  sweat-shops. ' ' 

He  now  paused,  shook  his  head  sympathetically, 
and  resumed  his  meal. 

His  last  few  words  removed  something  of  my 
antipathy  for  him.  He  now  touched  a  subject 
which  had  my  sympathy.  I  was  willing  to  hear 
him  talk. 

I  suppose  he  noticed  the  change  in  my  face,  for 
I  observed  a  satisfactory  smile  play  in  his  lively 
eyes. 

He  talked  about  the  condition  of  labour  on  the 
East  Side  for  a  while,  then  very  deftly  shifted  the 
one-sided  conversation  to  religion:  "The  love  for 


346  The  Fugitive 

Judaism,  the  religion  their  fathers  valued  so 
preciously,  is  entirely  extinguished  from  the  hearts 
of  the  younger  generation.  The  Russo- Jewish 
intelligent  young  men  who  fled — or,  rather,  have 
been  expelled — from  the  colleges  and  universities 
despise  that  old  Judaism  with  its  mystic  ceremonies 
and  absurd  formalities.  A  pure  monotheistic  belief, 
shrouded  in  a  cloud  of  ceremonies  and  symbols, 
may  be  beautiful,  but  it  is  by  no  means  tenacious 
on  the  human  mind.  It  may  be  good  philosophy, 
but  it  is  poor  religion.  At  least,  it  is  too  remote 
for  the  average  brain  to  grasp.  It  is  belief  in  some- 
thing of  which  we  have  no  conception  at  all. 
Don't  stare  at  me  so  wildly.  I  know  my 
people.  I  have  lived  and  suffered  with  them  and  for 
them  and  from  them.  I  once  shared  their  hopes, 
their  ideas,  their  beliefs." 

He  paused  and  looked  at  me  steadily  for  a  few 
seconds.  His  last  words  were  enigmatic,  being 
so  contradictory  to  his  actions  at  first. 

Then  he  resumed  in  a  low  tone:  "These  Russian 
Jewish  students  despise  their  ancestral  belief;  but 
to  accept  the  more  liberal  and  more  human  Chris- 
tian religion  in  the  land  of  tyranny  would  be  degrad- 
ing. The  Jew  likes  to  do  everything  voluntarily, 
but  nothing  under  compulsion.  He  possesses  the 
true  spirit  of  the  poet  and  the  martyr.  Coming  over 
to  this  country  and  finding  most  of  their  country- 
men in  a  deplorable  condition,  and  on  the  other 
hand  the  'reform'  Jews,  who  are  of  the  wealthier 


Assistance  Comes  Unexpectedly  347 

class,  repelling  them,  these  young  Russians  have 
drifted  away  from  both.  The  former  would  not 
assist  them  because  they  are  irreligious,  and  the 
latter  excuse  themselves  because  they  claim  those 
Russians  have  too  many  ideas.  Besides,  reformed 
Judaism  cannot  attract  these  enlightened  young 
men.  That  creed  has  no  life,  no  vitality,  neither 
as  a  religion  nor  as  a  philosophic  theory;  and  its 
professors  adhere  to  it  from  sheer  fashion  or  perhaps 
because  they  fear  the  aversion  of  their  Christian 
neighbours,  who  dislike  infidels.  Some  of  these 
young  men,  in  fact,  find  some  solace  in  Socialism. 
What  are  Anarchism  and  Socialism  if  not  the 
impulses  of  ambition  that  fall  short?  Anarchism 
is  no  idea  at  all ;  it  is  merely  the  hatred  that  springs 
up  in  the  breast  of  a  stripped  rival.  When  one 
loses  in  a  race  he  is  more  likely  to  find  fault  with 
the  winner  for  his  own  defeat  than  with  himself. 
Hence  Socialism  and  Anarchism. 

"The  only  remedy  for  these  intelligent  young 
men  is  to  adopt  a  new  faith  that  will  stream  fresh 
blood,  so  to  speak,  in  their  veins  and  resuscitate 
them — I  mean  Christianity.  They  would  also  get 
some  help  from  Christian  philanthropists,  and  would 
continue  to  lead  the  life  they  had  dreamed  of  in 
their  native  land." 

He  stopped  talking  and  cut  the  meat  which  the 
waiter  had  set  before  him. 

I  divined  at  last  the  secret  of  this  masked  being. 
He  was  a  missionary.  I  had  known  many  mission- 


348  The  Fugitive 

aries  who  had  tried  to  win  Jews  to  the  Christian 
belief,  and  all  of  them  I  had  despised.  I  noticed 
"he  meant  business,"  and  I  loathed  him  more  for 
it.  I  did  not  attempt  to  reply  to  what  he  had 
said,  however,  but  kept  on  eating  my  nine-cent  meal. 

"I  know  you,"  he  resumed.  "You  are  one  of 
those  students  I  pictured  a  little  while  ago.  Your 
name  is  Isidor  Russ." 

I  showed  my  surprise  at  this  personal  knowledge 
of  me  by  half  starting  from  my  chair. 

"There's  nothing  wonderful  about  my  knowing 
you,"  he  explained.  "I'll  be  frank  with  you.  I've 
seen  you  before;  you  interested  me;  I  know  some 
of  your  friends;  I  asked  questions,  and  so  I  know 
much  about  you.  I've  been  looking  for  a  chance  to 
meet  you;  I  followed  you  here  to-night. 

"You  were  innocently  convicted  several  weeks 
ago,"  he  went  on.  "Who  was  at  fault  but  the 
haughty  Rabbi?  It  was  not  because  he  hated 
you  individually;  he  hated  your  nationality.  The 
wealthy  American  Jews  are  retaliating  on  their 
own  poor  coreligionists  for  the  prejudice  they 
suffer  from  the  gentiles.  They  look  down  upon 
you  Russians,  with  all  your  intelligence,  unsur- 
passed liberality,  and  broadmindedness,  and,  if 
possible,  ostracise  you  from  their  clubs  and  societies. 
But  the  American  gentile  has  no  such  feeling.  He 
would  be  willing  to  accept  your  company  and  friend- 
ship. In  short,  my  friend,  I  can  help  you,"  he 
ended  significantly,  "and  you  will  be  able  to  earn 


Assistance  Comes  Unexpectedly  349 

your  livelihood  easily  and  pursue  your  studies 
besides  if  you  like." 

He  now  arose  to  leave,  and  finding  me  silent 
said:  "Think  it  over.  My  name  is  Gavniack.  I'll 
see  you  to-morrow." 

Saying  this,  he  threw  a  ten-dollar  bill  upon  the 
table  and  hurried  out  of  the  restaurant  before  I 
could  stop  him.  I  ran  after  him  to  return  his  money, 
but  he  was  lost  in  the  crowded  street. 

I  realised  that  this  man  was  a  Jewish-Christian 
missionary  who  was  fishing  in  the  squalid  Ghetto 
for  Hebrew  souls.  Was  he  indeed  a  religious  fakir, 
or  was  he  honest  in  his  belief  ?  At  the  last  he  had 
certainly  talked  ardently  and  with  the  appearance 
of  sincerity. 

I  brooded  in  my  room  for  hours  that  night.  I 
thought  of  my  miserable  health,  of  my  poverty,  of 
what  I  had  suffered  through  the  inhumanity  of 
Rabbi  Fuchs.  And  I  thought  of  my  future — ah,  my 
future !  That  troubled  me  most.  All  the  time 
the  words  of  the  missionary  were  repeating  them- 
selves in  my  mind :  "  You  will  be  able  to  earn  your 
livelihood  and  pursue  your  studies."  Perhaps  he 
was  sincere.  At  any  rate,  he  offered  me  hope. 
His  promises  were  vague,  but  I  had  nothing  to 
lose  by  investigation ;  and  I  must  return  his  money. 
So  I  decided  to  see  him  again. 


CHAPTER  IX 
THE  MISSIONARY  AGAIN 

COMING  home  the  following  day,  I  found  my  land- 
lady in  tears.  The  youngest  girl  was  sick,  and  she 
had  not  a  cent  with  which  to  buy  the  prescribed 
medicine.  I  owed  her  a  little  over  six  dollars,  but 
she  did  not  even  hint  for  it.  However,  I  felt  myself 
guilty  of  a  gross  wrong ;  the  little  girl  might  die  for 
want  of  medicine,  and  I  had  money !  I  put  my 
hand  into  my  pocket  and  crumpled  the  ten-dollar 
bill,  hesitating  what  to  do.  "It  is  not  mine,"  I 
argued  with  myself;  "how  can  I  give  it  away?" 
"  But  the  sick  child  might  die,"  another  thought 
protested. 

I  quickly  drew  out  the  money  and  handed  it  to 
the  landlady,  who  was  looking  at  her  poor  child 
with  tearful  eyes.  "Here  is  your  six  dollars  and 
fifteen  cents.  You  will  bring  me  the  change." 

She  wiped  away  her  tears  and  looked  at  me  a 
trifle  abashed,  probably  wondering  how  I  came 
by  that  fortune. 

"God  knows  the  truth,  I  did  not  mean  to  press 
you,"  she  apologised.  "I  know  that  you  would 
have  paid  me  long  ago  if  you  had  only  had  it,  but  I 
was  simply  giving  vent  to  my  bitter  heart." 

35<> 


The  Missionary  Again  351 

Then  I  worried  again  because  I  had  used  the 
missionary's  money.  I  began  to  walk  the  floor  of 
my  room  restlessly.  The  walls,  the  ceiling,  the 
very  air  of  the  enclosure  put  a  certain  burden,  so  to 
speak,  upon  my  brain  and  nerves.  I  wished  I  could 
shake  off  everything  from  my  mind.  So  I  took  a 
stroll  through  the  dingy  streets.  Razovski's  talk 
and  the  incident  I  had  experienced  with  the  Rabbi 
came  back  to  my  mind  like  a  past  dream.  "Juda- 
ism is  declining;  reform  Judaism  is  a  sham  and 
orthodoxy  an  absurdity;  the  Jews  are  hated  by  all, 
and  the  Russian  Jews  are  prejudiced  by  the  Ameri- 
can and  naturalised  German  Jews.  For  shame  !  I 
should  beg  of  Jews  to  tolerate  me.  Jews  that  enter- 
tain prejudice  against  any  of  their  brethren  deserve 
no  regard,  no  respect.  I  should  rather  starve  in  the 
streets  of  the  liberal  metropolis  than  apply  for  aid 
to  the  vain,  wealthy  merchant  who  would  perhaps 
scoff  and  sneer  at  the  despised  Russian  student 
before  he  would  condescend  to  consider  his  tale  of 
woe." 

"What  have  I  in  common  with  the  Jews?"  I 
further  asked  myself.  "Why  not  cut  myself  loose 
from  these  people?  The  Christians,  indeed,  have 
treated  the  Jews  cruelly  in  the  past,  but  what  is 
that  compared  to  the  prejudice  which  the  well-to-do 
American  Jews  have  shown  against  the  poor  Rus- 
sian refugees  ?  No  wrong  is  a  wrong  by  itself ;  it  is 
relatively  measured  by  the  required  right.  What 
have  national  or  race  connections  to  do  with  me? 


35 2  The  Fugitive 

I  am  only  a  Jew  by  race,  which  is  simply  a  term 
denoting  bigotry.  I  am  a  philosopher,  and  true 
philosophy  (not  the  narrow-minded  philosophy  of 
Bismarck)  teaches  that  there  is  no  race  or  nation- 
ality. Mankind  in  its  broadest  sense  is  our  race  and 
nationality,  and  the  Chinaman  is  just  as  much  mine 
or  I  his  as  the  Jew.  Whom  shall  I  fight  for  ?  Why 
shall  I  curry  the  favour  of  some  wealthy  Jews  when 
the  whole  world  is  before  me?"  "You  will  be  able 
to  earn  your  livelihood  easily,  and  pursue  your 
studies  if  you  like" — the  missionary's  words  flashed 
through  my  mind.  "Why  should  I  insist  upon 
bearing  this  misnomer?  What  care  I  for  ideas  and 
ideals?  They  are  merely  the  fruit  of  vapid  brains. 
What  difference  is  it  to  me  what  form  of  religion 
the  Jews  have,  however  much  it  may  worry  Razov- 
ski  ?  What  care  I  whether  the  German,  American,  or 
Austrian  Jew  bears  prejudice  against  me  or  not,  let 
the  question  grieve  my  friend  as  much  as  it  may  ? 
Why  should  it  hurt  me  more  than  any  other  intelli- 
gent person  that  Mr.  Cohn,  or  Jewheimer,  was  ostra- 
cised from  a  certain  club  because  his  belief  was 
different  from  that  of  the  other  members  ?  Further- 
more, the  same  Mr.  Cohn,  or  Jewheimer,  entertains 
prejudice  against  his  less  fortunate  coreligionists 
and  ostracises  the  Russian  and  '  Pullack'  if  he  pos- 
sibly can.  The  dog  is  not  better  than  the  cane 
that  hits  him.  Nationality  and  religion  are  only 
relics  from  ancient  barbarity,  the  terms  of  which 
have  been  coined  and  perpetuated  by  egoists  and 


The  Missionary  Again  353 

bigots  whose  sole  ambition  was  to  enslave  and 
subjugate  others  under  their  yoke.  Then  why 
should  I  suffer  for  an  ancient  fiction  which  injures 
my  present  existence  ?  People  like  Razovski  call  it 
standing  by  their  principles,  but  with  me  it  has 
ceased  to  be  a  principle." 

That  night  I  went  again  to  the  nine-cent  restau- 
rant, but  Gavniack  did  not  appear,  as  his  promise 
had  led  me  to  think  he  would.  Every  night  for  a 
week  found  me  in  the  restaurant,  but  the  mission- 
ary did  not  come.  I  inquired  of  the  nine-cent 
restaurant  keeper,  but  he  knew  nothing  about  him, 
he  said,  though  the  expression  of  his  face  told  me  a 
different  story. 

All  this  while  I  kept  up  a  disheartened  search  for 
work,  but  no  one  wanted  me.  Razovski  could  not 
help  me;  he  had  neither  influence  nor  money,  so  I 
did  not  ask  him  for  assistance.  The  balance  of  the 
missionary's  ten  dollars  gave  out.  Then  my  hunger 
discovered  for  me  a  new  scheme.  On  the  Bow- 
ery there  were  a  number  of  cheap  saloons  which 
served  free  lunch  to  their  patrons.  As  most  of 
these  saloons  were  always  crowded,  I  found  no 
trouble  in  sneaking  by  the  lunch-counter  and  get- 
ting a  little  bite  of  the  musty  cheese  and  bread  or 
a  roll  of  cut  meat  without  price.  This  practice  I 
successfully  pursued  over  a  week  until  a  fat 
bartender  detected  my  petty  thefts  and  punished 
me  with  a  blow  from  his  huge  fist. 

I  continued  to  call  daily  at  the  nine-cent  restau- 


354  The  Fugitive 

rant,  but  could  find  no  clue  to  the  missionary's 
whereabouts.  Such  are  the  contrasts  in  problem- 
atic life ;  we  anxiously  search  one  day  for  what  we 
rejected  the  day  preceding. 

By  this  time  I  was  disgusted  with  life.  No  one's 
path  is  strewn  with  roses,  but  when  one  loses  the 
path  altogether  what  hope  is  left?  "Suicide  is  the 
easiest  and  best  method  to  roll  off  the  burden  of  life," 
I  determined  one  afternoon  while  rambling  aim- 
lessly through  the  streets.  "Why  suffer  from  want 
of  subsistence  when  we  can  make  that  want  unnec- 
essary? Why  should  I  look  for  a  remedy  when  I 
can  escape  the  sickness?  Once  rid  of  what  we  call 
life,  we  find  the  end  of  all  our  troubles.  It  is  like 
one  carrying  a  heavy  stone  and  complaining  of  its 
weight,  when  he  could  simply  drop  it  and  be  released 
from  its  burden."  I  dwelt  upon  these  thoughts 
often,  but  I  realised  that  I  was  too  weak,  too  cow- 
ardly. I  lived  because  I  could  not  die. 

One  cold  December  evening  I  visited  the  nine- 
cent  restaurant,  as  usual,  and  waited  there  rather 
long,  with  a  hope  that  the  missionary  might  appear. 
And  suddenly  he  opened  the  door. 

He  rubbed  his  hands  as  he  came  up  to  me.  I 
resented  his  pious  manner — I  resented  his  appear- 
ance; but  I  was  starving,  and  expected  help  from 
him. 

He  shook  my  hand  warmly,  and  explained  that 
he  had  been  out  of  town  ever  since  he  saw  me  last, 
trying  to  organise  a  Christian- Jewish  mission  in  a 


The  Missionary  Again  355 

small  town  in  Connecticut.  He  invited  me  to  go 
to  a  decent  restaurant.  I  accepted  his  invitation. 

When  we  had  finished  the  meal,  during  which  he 
drank  heavily  of  wine,  he  said  in  Hebrew,  in  his 
lowest  possible  tone,  "Art  thou  for  us  or  for  our 
adversaries?"  and  smiled  an  insinuating  smile. 

My  answer  stuck  in  my  throat. 

"I  hope  you  have  by  this  time  appreciated  the 
truth  of  my  statements,"  he  said.  He  puffed  out 
a  thick  volume  of  smoke  and  looked  straight  at  me 
with  his  little  eyes,  that  betrayed  the  effect  of  the 
wine  he  had  drunk. 

"Come,  let  us  go  to  some  place  where  we  can 
talk  more  freely,"  he  said  after  I  had  continued  in 
my  silence  for  a  minute  or  two.  "And  where  we 
can  get  good  wine,"  he  added.  "What  did  Luther 
say?— 

"  '  Wer  nicht  liebt  Wein,  Weib,  und  Gesang, 
Der  bleibt  ein  Narr  sein  Leben  lang.' 

Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  It  takes  a  poet  to  say  that  and  a 
missionary  to  practise  it.  Ha  !  ha  !  ha  !  Come — 
we'll  have  a  chat." 


CHAPTER  X 
A  CHAT  WITH  THE  MISSIONARY 

WE  got  on  an  elevated  car  at  Grand  Street  and 
rode  uptown.  We  alighted  at  the  Fifty-ninth 
Street  station  and  walked  several  blocks  to  a  fash- 
ionable apartment  house,  in  which  he  said  he  lived. 
'  In  the  small  corridor  he  pressed  one  of  a  number  of 
electric  buttons,  and  somebody  called  through  the 
speaking-tube. 

"Open,  Martha  !"  the  missionary  answered. 

I  heard  a  click,  and  he  opened  the  door  of  the  hall. 

"One  flight  up,"  he  said  to  me  as  he  ran  up  the 
stairs.  He  led  me  up  the  one  flight  and  knocked  at 
a  door.  It  was  opened  by  a  tall,  well-shaped  woman 
who  smiled  on  Gavniack  as  we  entered.  It  struck 
me  that  her  smile  was  hardly  the  smile  of  a  wife. 

We  went  through  a  room  which  I  noted  in  passing 
was  expensively  furnished,  and  entered  a  room  that 
was  half  study,  half  smoking-room.  This,  like  the 
adjoining  room,  had  been  furnished  at  much  expense. 
There  was  a  long,  black  leather  couch  and  two  arm- 
chairs; on  the  wall  hung  a  good  picture  of  the 
woman  who  had  opened  the  door  for  us,  and  oppo- 
site it  hung  a  picture  of  a  beautiful  little  girl,  who 
looked  like  the  miniature  of  the  woman.  There 

356 


A  Chat  With  the  Missionary  357 

was  also  a  small,  well-filled  book-case  and  a  couple 
of  well-executed  pieces  of  marble. 

He  excused  himself,  but  returned  in  a  few  min- 
utes. He  drew  the  two  arm-chairs  close  together 
and  placed  a  small  round  table  between  us.  We  had 
scarcely  seated  ourselves  when  the  woman  brought 
in  some  wine,  oysters,  and  cigars,  and  placed  them 
on  the  table.  She  looked  at  me  keenly  as  she  put 
the  tray  down,  and  a  sudden  warmth  passed  over 
my  face. 

He  did  not  introduce  me  to  her,  so  I  concluded  she 
was  not  his  wife. 

She  was  decidedly  handsome,  about  thirty  years 
old,  I  judged,  with  full  milky  cheeks,  slightly  tinged 
with  crimson,  thick,  light-brown  hair,  and  bluish 
eyes  with  an  experienced  look  in  them.  Although 
I  had  always  flattered  myself  upon  being  a  good 
physiognomist,  I  could  not  at  first  tell  her  race  or 
nationality.  She  looked  like  a  charming  young 
Bauerin,  full  of  rustic  fascination.  However,  after 
close  observation  I  discerned,  by  her  profile  and 
meditative  glance,  that  she  must  have  Jewish  blood 
in  her  veins. 

She  closed  the  door  after  her  when  she  left,  and 
Gavniack  glanced  at  me  through  the  corner  of  his 
eye — a  little  suspiciously,  I  thought,  though  he 
feigned  to  be  looking  at  the  picture  opposite  him. 

He  filled  both  of  our  glasses  and  said:  "Drink. 
'Wine  makes  glad  the  heart  of  man,'"  quoting 
the  Psalm  in  the  original.  "The  Psalmist,  like 


358  The  Fugitive 

Luther,    appreciated    the    mission    of    Bacchus — 
hey?" 

"Wine  enters  and  secrets  come  out,"  I  thought, 
but  I  said  nothing. 

He  sipped  from  his  glass  slowly  and  eyed  me  while 
I  followed  his  exampje.  He  was  already  much  the 
worse  for  wine.  "Did  not  Jesus  bring  salvation  on 
earth?"  he  laughed,  and  gobbled  a  raw  oyster  down 
his  throat.  "I  am  sure  he  was  my  Redeemer" — 
winking.  "Religion  is  a  milch-cow,  friend,  if  you 
pursue  it  in  the  right  way.  Enlightenment  ?  Non- 
sense!" he  ejaculated,  answering  an  imaginary 
question.  "Cattle  will  always  need  a  herdsman, 
but  the  herdsman  must  not  be  blind."  Here  he 
winked  again.  "Wine,  woman,  and  song — what 
a  glorious  combination  !  Ha !  ha  !  ha  !" 

"  Why  do  you  look  so  stiff  and  reserved,  Mr.  Russ  ? 
[He  did  not  know  my  real  name.]  You  wonder, 
perhaps,  what  I  want  you  for.  Nothing  bad,  I 
assure  you.  I  shall  not  even  ask  you  to  see  the 
font" — a  cloud  passed  over  my  face — "you  will 
reciprocate  my  favours  in  another  way. 

"You  think  I  do  not  know  you,"  he  continued 
after  a  short  pause.  "  I  know  Razovski  and  almost 
every  intelligent  Russian  in  this  city.  I  am  fishing 
for  them  all  the  time.  Razovski  thinks  the  world 
of  you,  and  that's  one  reason  I'm  going  to  offer  you 
so  much  for  almost  nothing.  Oh,  I  know  you  all. 
I  watch  all  of  you.  I  am  like  the  legendary  Elijah. 
I  appear  in  different  shapes  and  forms,  as  fits  the 


A  Chat  With  the  Missionary  359 

occasion.  One  time  I  am  an  orthodox  rabbi, 
another  time  a  Schnorrer;  sometimes  a  Russian 
refugee  looking  for  intelligent  countrymen,  and 
another  time  I  become  a  prince  enjoying  my  wine, 
women,  and  song — ha !  ha !  ha  ! "  His  eyes  flashed 
and  danced  quickly;  perspiration  rolled  down  his 
high  forehead. 

"I  could  not  do  anything  with  that  idealist, 
Razovski,"  he  went  on.  "Our  profession  needs 
young  men  like  him,  and  he  is  worth  his  weight  in 
gold.  But  no  inducement  could  bribe  him.  [My 
heart  throbbed  with  shame.]  An  idealist  is  the  best 
tool  for  our  profession,  for  those  idealists  generally 
run  from  one  extreme  to  the  other.  We  need  new 
blood  now.  Our  best  patrons  are  now  losing  faith 
in  us,  and  if  this  keeps  on  much  longer  we  may  be 
played  out.  The  infidels  on  one  side  and  the  poor 
on  the  other  are  liable  to  wrest  the  food  from  our 
mouths.  In  ancient  times  baptism  was  looked  upon 
with  unspeakable  horror  by  the  Jews,  but  of  late 
it  has  become  rather  fashionable."  He  smiled  a 
self -adulating  grin.  "Those  Jews  of  greatest  talent 
and  genius  have  tried  to  wash  their  birth  off  with 
the  sacred  water  of  the  font." 

"  But  they  have  not  succeeded,"  I  remarked. 

"Well,  the  witty  Heine  and  rebellious  Borne 
found  it  a  necessity  in  their  time,"  he  answered, 
evading  my  remark. 

"  But  don't  you  know  that  this  was  the  cause  of 
the  animosity  between  these  two  geniuses?  Heine 


360  The  Fugitive 

despised  Borne  for  his  hypocrisy,  and  the  latter 
bitterly  and  sarcastically  ridiculed  the  former  for 
his  selfishness." 

"That  is  the  Jew  all  over,"  Gavniack  laughed, 
and  swung  his  rocking-chair  rapidly  to  and  fro. 
"Every  Jew  justifies  his  own  mistakes  and  con- 
demns his  brother  for  committing  the  same."  He 
paused  a  few  minutes  and  sipped  from  his  glass, 
which  he  had  replenished  frequently,  and  looked 
at  the  lighted  cigar  that  lay  upon  the  edge  of  the 
ash-receiver  sending  up  a  fine  blue  curl  of  smoke. 

"However,  I  find  no  fault  either  with  Heine  or 
Borne,"  he  resumed.  "For  in  spite  of  their  muse- 
worship  they  retained  the  principles  of  political 
economy.  I  mean  that  of  gain.  Gain  is  the  electric 
current  that  makes  the  world  run. 

"  Now,  let  us  come  to  a  clear  understanding  as  to 
what  I  ask  of  you  in  return  for  the  assistance  I 
offer."  He  assumed  a  businesslike  air.  "I  know 
that  you  are  well  versed  in  Hebrew  literature,  and 
you  are  able  to  dig  out  some  necessary  information 
from  the  Talmud,  Kabbala,  and  so  forth.  Besides, 
your  knowledge  of  the  four  principal  European 
languages  will  be  of  some  help  to  me.  In  short,  all 
I  ask  of  you  is  a  little  elucidation  on  theological 
topics.  To  be  frank  with  you,  I  have  neither  the 
time  nor  the  requisite  knowledge  to  investigate  these 
subjects  for  myself.  I  have  helped  many  Russian 
students,  and  they  are  officiating  in  large  Christian 
churches.  But  I  have  no  more  use  for  them — • 


A  Chat  With  the  Missionary  361 

none  whatever.  But  I  got  paid  for  them,  all  right." 
This  last  he  said  half  to  himself. 

He  spoke  in  a  cool,  businesslike  tone,  just  as  if 
he  were  hiring  me  to  keep  a  set  of  books. 

" I  tell  you,"  he  proceeded,  "there  will  be  a  great 
future  for  you  if  you  will  give  up  your  notion  of 
finishing  your  medical  course  and  become  one  of  us. 
Your  information  will  bring  you  a  fortune.  You 
have  the  equipment  to  make  a  great  success.  Most 
of  our  missionaries  are  ignoramuses,  but  the  benevo- 
lent Christians  don't  know  the  difference.  They 
are  so  glad  to  get  a  Jewish  convert  who  will  proselyte 
among  the  Jews  that  they  trouble  themselves  very 
little  about  his  knowledge.  Some  of  the  emigrants, 
however,  have  spoiled  our  business  horribly.  It 
was  discovered  that  some  received  baptismal  fees 
here  in  New  York,  sold  their  dead  souls  in  several 
western  cities,  and  finally  returned  to  their  old 
faith.  That  is  outrageous — they  are  ruining  us ! 

"Well,  it  is  then  agreed  between  us:  you  will 
furnish  us  with  some  material  for  our  Jewish- 
Christian  periodical.  I  am  one  of  the  editorial 
staff.  Your  work  will  consist  in  making  abstracts 
from  Jewish  books  or  papers.  For  instance,  when 
a  Jewish  editor  complains  of  Jewish  indifference 
toward  their  religion,  make  an  abstract  of  this 
article  and  send  it  to  us.  It  makes  spicy  stuff  for 
our  paper.  We'll  speak  about  this  some  other 
time.  As  to  your  payment,  things  will  be  fixed  so 
you  can  pursue  your  study  of  medicine.  I  have  a 


362  The  Fugitive 

letter  of  recommendation  for  you  from  Doctor 

P to  the  dean  of  the  Medical  College. 

It  is  early  in  the  term,  and  you  will  be  able  to 
commence  at  once.  You  agree?" 

I  dropped  my  eyes;  shame  almost  choked  me. 
He  laid  down  on  the  table  the  letter  of  recommenda- 
tion, twenty-five  dollars  and  the  address  of  a  family 
with  whom  I  could  get  board ;  for  he,  certain  of  my 
acceptance,  had  made  all  arrangements. 

"You  agree?"  he  repeated. 

My  soul  revolted  at  this  business.  But  it  was  this 
or  starvation.  I  nodded  my  head. 

At  this  he  rose.  I  took  this  as  a  sign  that  he  was 
through  with  me  and  said  I  would  have  to  go.  As 
I  passed  through  the  other  room  I  noticed  the  beauti- 
ful young  woman  stretched  on  a  sofa.  She  appeared 
very  graceful  in  the  shaded  light,  but  care  and 
worry  were  chiselling  on  her  brow  and  around  the 
corners  of  her  mouth. 


CHAPTER  XI 
AN  OLD  FRIEND  AGAIN 

A  YEAR  glided  by  without  any  incidents  worth 
putting  on  paper.  I  reviewed  my  medical  studies, 
and,  by  hard  work  on  my  part  and  by  considerable 
leniency  on  the  part  of  the  college  authorities,  I 
was  enabled  to  enter  the  senior  class  the  following 
autumn.  That  year  made  a  marked  change  in  me. 
Another  resurrection,  so  to  speak — a  new  spring 
after  my  long,  dreary  winter.  My  almost  withered 
and  insipid  brain  regained  fresh  vigour.  I  was 
filled  with  new  hope,  new  energy,  and  happy  visions 
came  before  me.  I  was  alive  once  more.  And 
the  thirst  for  study  and  reading  assumed  its  power 
over  me. 

During  that  year  I  came  in  contact  very  little  with 
the  missionary  Gavniack,  nor  did  I  see  Razovski. 
With  the  former  I  generally  corresponded,  enclosing 
my  abstracts,  and  the  latter  I  was  ashamed  to  meet. 
I  felt  guilty,  and  a  guilty  conscience  fears  the  look 
of  the  innocent.  When  my  conscience  rebuked  me 
in  the  silence  of  night,  when  sentiments  of  truth 
and  integrity  stirred  within  me,  when  tears  washed 
my  cheeks  because  of  the  base  hypocritical  means 
by  which  I  was  earning  my  livelihood,  I  would  try 

363 


364  The  Fugitive 

to  excuse  myself  by  saying  that  there  was  nothing 
wrong  in  my  work  itself — there  would  be  no  wrong 
in  merely  translating  and  making  abstracts  from 
the  Koran,  which  was  all  I  did.  The  wrong  was 
done  by  those  who  made  use  of  my  work  with 
insincere  purpose. 

But  such  justification  comforted  me  little.  I 
realised  I  was  playing  a  base  part,  and  all  my  powers 
of  reasoning  could  not  help  me  to  escape  a  feeling 
of  shame.  And  when  I  thought  of  Katia  my 
shame  would  grow  into  anguish.  What  would  she, 
with  her  purity  and  lofty  ideas,  think  of  me  if  she 
knew  I  was  gaining  my  livelihood  by  such  dishonest 
means  ?  But  my  very  love  for  Katia  also  influenced 
me  in  holding  to  this  work.  I  wished  to  finish  my 
medical  course  as  soon  as  possible,  in  order  that  I 
might  be  free  to  search  for  her,  and  that  I  might 
have  something  to  offer  her  when  found — for  the 
hope  of  meeting  her  again  still  clung  to  my  mind. 

As  I  have  said,  I  saw  but  little  of  Gavniack.  I 
had  not  met  him  for  six  months,  when  one  afternoon 
in  the  spring,  while  I  was  out  for  a  stroll,  I  met  him 
by  chance  on  Fifth  Avenue,  accompanied  by  a 
tall,  broad-shouldered,  handsome  young  man.  A 
glance — and  this  young  man  and  I  pounced  on 
each  other  and  began  shaking  hands. 

"Dolgoff !"  I  ejaculated. 

"Ivan  Petrowitch!"  he  cried,  addressing  me  by 
the  name  in  the  passport  he  had  furnished  me  in 
Vilno. 


An  Old  Friend  Again  365 

Gavniack  shrank  back  a  step  or  two.  It  was 
evident  he  found  no  pleasure  in  the  discovery  of 
friendship  between  Dolgoff  and  me.  "You  seem  to 
know  one  another?"  he  said. 

"We're  old  friends,"  replied  Dolgoff  in  his  gay, 
resonant  voice. 

While  we  were  exchanging  news  about  ourselves 
Gavniack  interrupted  to  remind  his  companion  that 
if  they  lingered  any  longer  they  would  be  late  at  the 
meeting  of  missionaries  which  was  to  take  place  that 
afternoon. 

Dolgoff  excused  himself,  saying  he  would  rather 
spend  the  time  chatting  with  me.  Gavniack 
hesitated  a  minute  or  two,  then  bade  us  farewell,  and 
Dolgoff  and  I  went  to  my  lodging. 

He  was  a  trifle  changed,  but  was  as  handsome  as 
ever.  He  was  now  still  better  developed,  and  his 
soft  black  hair,  black  eyes  of  the  Jewish  type, 
and  in  all  his  beaming  countenance  showed  the 
same  contentment  as  in  former  days.  His  smooth- 
shaven  face  had  that  physical  beauty  which  is 
rarely  seen  in  the  face  of  poets  or  thinkers. 

I  offered  Dolgoff  a  pipe,  took  one  myself,  and  we 
began  to  indulge  in  reminiscences.  There  are 
some  persons  that  make  themselves  at  home 
wherever  they  come;  Dolgoff  was  one  of  those. 
Generally  such  people  never  have  a  permanent 
home,  and  having  lived  a  vagrant  life  they  can  easily 
adapt  themselves  to  circumstances. 

"So  you  have  become  a  missionary?"  I  said,  re- 


366  The  Fugitive 

f erring  to  his  present  occupation.  "How  did  you 
come  to  that  Gavniack?" 

"Ha!  ha!  ha!  la  missionary!"  He  laughed 
heartily,  crossing  his  legs  and  puffing  mouthfuls  of 
smoke.  "It  is  queer,  isn't  it?  In  Russia  I 
fooled  government  fools.  Here  I  fool  God's  fools. 
Life  is  full  of  foolery."  He  laughed  again.  "We 
live  to  fool  one  another,  or  rather  we  fool  one  another 
in  order  to  live.  Either  you  fool  somebody  else 
or  somebody  else  fools  you.  The  success  of  life  is 
the  success  one  has  in  fooling  as  many  fools  as  he 
possibly  can.  As  to  that  Gavniack,  I  knew  him 
in  London ;  I  knew  him  in  Kieff ;  I  knew  him  in  Vilno ; 
I  knew  him — ha !  ha !  I  have  known  him  long 
enough,  and  it  is  because  I  know  him  so  well  that  I 
got  this  position.  He  is  a  shark  in  his  line ;  he  beats 
the  whole  missionary  clique." 

"But  what  induced  you  to  take  this  step?"  I 
further  inquired.  Not  that  I  was  so  much  interested 
in  him  as  that  I  wished  to  squeeze  from  him  some- 
thing concerning  Gavniack.  I  detested  Gavniack, 
and  yet  I  wanted  to  know  all  I  could  concerning 
him. 

"The  same  inducement  that  made  you  take  the 
step,"  he  said;  at  which  I  felt  my  blood  ascending 
to  my  face.  "  I  was  confined  in  prison  about  a  year, 
but  I  finally  succeeded  in  escaping.  First  I  went 
to  Holland,  but  I  could  not  find  any  work  to  suit 
me.  One  thing  was  too  hard,  another  too  easy,  and 
so  forth.  I  was  soon  helpless  and  starving.  But 


An  Old  Friend  Again  367 

God  has  never  forsaken  me  altogether."  He 
smiled.  "  I  came  in  contact  with  a  missionary  who 
began  to  fish  for  my  soul.  It  did  not  take  me  long 
to  strike  a  bargain  with  him,  and  I  got  the  best  of  it. 
For  my  soul  was  worth  very  little,  and  my  body 
was  the  whole  world  to  me.  I  lived  six  months  in 
luxury  and  got  some  money  to  boot  for  my  worth- 
less soul. 

"  But  I  soon  tired  of  Amsterdam  and  went  to 
Hamburg.  I  had  a  little  experience  in  the  business, 
and  thought  I  could  speculate  with  my  soul  again. 
I  had  never  before  appreciated  what  a  valuable 
soul  I  possessed."  He  puffed  out  a  volume  of 
smoke  and  chuckled  with  some  satisfaction.  "In 
that  God-fearing  city  the  price  of  my  soul  trebled. 
I  got  several  hundred  for  it  from  my  godfather, 
who  had  a  big  belly  and  a  small  brain,  and  I  also  got 
some  money  from  the  missionaries.  It  never  rains 
but  it  pours.  A  nice  Christian  girl  fell  in  love 
with  my  black  eyes  and  curly  hair,  and  she  was 
frank  enough  to  tell  me  so.  I  did  not  object.  Who 
would?  A  girl  is  a  girl.  She  was  so  innocent,  so 
girlish,  that  I  could  have  taken  her  to  the  end  of 
the  world  had  I  chosen.  She  believed  in  me  as  in 
the  Saviour.  A  short  time  afterward  I  got  tired 
of  her  love  and  kisses  and  skipped  to  London,  with 
the  intention  of  taking  up  some  honest  trade.  In 
fact,  I  wished  to  repent.  But  the  idling  missionary 
life  had  got  its  hold  on  me,  and  I  changed  my  mind. 
Well,  speculation  with  my  soul  is  not  bad,  after 


368  The  Fugitive 

all,  I  thought.  I  soon  found  another  customer  for 
it.  He  was  very  religious  and  charitable  (the  latter 
proved  beneficial  to  me).  At  his  home  I  met  this 
Gavniack.  His  name  was  Gordon  then,  but  I  had 
known  him  by  his  former  names;  he  had  many.  I 
had  known  him  so  well  in  the  past  that  he  thought 
it  wise  to  give  me  a  friendly  reception.  At  that 
time  he  introduced  me  to  several  members  of  his 
fraternity,  as  he  called  it,  and  my  position  was 
assured.  Wine,  cigars,  theaters,  good  meals,  and 
everything  I  could  desire  I  received  without  a 
stroke  of  work.  On  Saturday  afternoons  I  used  to 
go  down  with  him  to  Whitechapel,  where  he  preached 
to  the  Jews.  I  was  one  of  his  associates  for  a  while, 
and  we  all  prospered. 

"One  of  his  associates  was  a  minister  of  a  rich 
congregation,  a  Jew  by  birth.  He  was  baptised  at 
a  very  early  age,  and,  unlike  other  Jewish  converts, 
he  was  faithful  to  his  adopted  creed.  He  loved  the 
people  of  his  race,  and  believed  that  their  only  sal- 
vation would  come  through  Christ.  A  Jewish  con- 
vert to  Christianity  was  a  precious  being  to  him. 
Gavniack,  with  his  flattery,  won  the  confidence  of 
that  noble  minister,  but  that  sly  fox  did  not  care 
so  much  for  the  clergyman  as  for  his  beautiful 
daughter,  Martha." 

"Martha!"  I  interrupted,  thinking  of  the 
woman  I  had  seen  in  Gavniack's  apartment  a  year 
before. 

He   read   my   thought.     "Yes;    she's   with   him 


An  Old  Friend  Again  369 

here."  A  look  of  pain  came  upon  his  face,  and  he 
was  silent  for  a  minute. 

"  What  can  a  girl  know  of  sin  and  corruption  ?"  he 
continued.  "It  is  the  unsuspicious  that  are 
ensnared  by  the  wicked.  That  contemptible  wretch 
won  the  heart  of  that  virtuous  maiden  as  easily  as 
he  had  won  the  women  before  her.  One  day 
Gavniack  and  Martha  disappeared.  She,  of  course, 
did  not  know  he  was  married.  The  flight  of  his 
child  threw  the  old  minister  into  an  apoplectic  fit 
which  proved  fatal.  I  think  Mrs.  Gordon  was 
forced  by  her  poverty  to  become  a  washerwoman. 

"I  pursued  my  missionary  trade  in  London  till 
about  six  months  ago,  when  I  desired  to  come  to 
America  and  begin  an  honourable  life.  I  arrived  in 
this  city  with  a  moderate  capital,  with  the  sole 
intention  of  starting  some  honest  trade.  How- 
ever, fate,  it  seems,  predestined  for  me  to  remain 
in  the  same  business  a  little  longer.  A  few  weeks 
after  I  arrived  here  I  met  this  contemptible  Gor- 
don, or,  as  he  calls  himself  here,  Reverend  Gavniack. 
He  tried  to  sneak  away,  but  it  was  too  late.  At 
first  I  felt  like  punching  his  sheepish,  hypocritical 
face,  'but,'  I  thought,  'he  is  a  sly  fox,  and  I  must 
handle  him  differently." 

He  paused  and  looked  away  from  we.  After  a 
minute  he  continued,  his  voice  somewhat  husky: 

"To  be  frank  with  you,  Israel,  I  loved  Martha — 
even  after  she  had  disgraced  herself  by  running 
away  with  Gavniack.  I  made  up  my  mind  to 


37°  The  Fugitive 

handle  him  softly  and  find  out  about  Martha  myself. 
A  few  months  passed  by,  and  he  was  cunning  enough 
to  conceal  her  whereabouts  from  me.  In  the  mean- 
time I  thought  it  was  foolish  to  refuse  his  money. 
He  is  a  clever  missionary — that  we  cannot  deny. 
His  face,  his  low,  musical  voice,  his  shy  look,  his 
humble  demeanour — everything  about  him  shows 
qualifications  for  his  profession.  He  is  a  genius  in 
that  field. 

"Finally,  however,  I  found  her  out.  He  keeps 
her  in  a  luxurious  cage,  and  she  is  afraid  to  fly  away, 
though  I  discovered  that  she  hates  him  dreadfully. 
He  brings  everything  to  the  house,  but  he  is  careful 
not  to  give  her  any  money.  She  is  his  slave  and 
fears  him.  About  three  months  after  she  had  left 
London  she  gave  birth  to  a  child,  and  he  got  rid 
of  it,  I  don't  know  how.  What  a  change  there  is 
in  that  woman !  She  is  about  twenty-three  years 
old,  and  she  looks  as  if  she  were  thirty." 

I  could  clearly  see,  from  the  expression  of  his  face 
and  the  tone  of  his  voice  as  he  spoke  of  Martha,  that 
he  was  deeply  moved. 

"  He  certainly  is  a  dastardly  villain  !"  I  exclaimed, 
partly  as  an  expression  of  my  loathing  of  Gavniack, 
partly  as  an  expression  of  my  sympathy  for  Dolgoff. 

"The  devil's  even  blacker  than  I  have  painted 
him,"  Dolgoff  added  somewhat  bitterly.  "  He  was 
a  Russian  spy  for  a  while,  and  he  has  sent  hundreds 
of  honourable  people  to  Siberia.  And  I've  heard  it 
rumoured  that  he  killed  his  own  father." 


An  Old  Friend  Again  371 

I  started  like  one  bitten  by  an  asp.  I  recalled 
what  Dolgoff  had  said  in  Kieff  regarding  my  resem- 
blance to  an  old  friend  of  his.  A  horrible  suspicion 
had  flashed  into  my  mind.  I  dared  not  follow  it 
further.  I  quivered  with  fear  at  this  suggestive 
thought.  Fortunately,  Dolgoff's  face  was  turned 
away,  so  he  did  not  see  how  his  words  had  affected 
me;  and  when  he  left,  a  few  minutes  later,  he 
was  so  engrossed  with  his  own  unhappy  thoughts 
that  he  evidently  noticed  nothing  unusual  in  my 
appearance. 


CHAPTER  XII 
THE  WORLD  is  QUITE  SMALL,  AFTER  ALL 

THE  evening  of  the  next  day  Gavniack  called 
upon  me.  His  visit  at  first  surprised  me,  for  he 
had  not  been  in  my  room  for  a  year.  However,  I 
soon  divined  from  his  desultory  talk  that  he  had 
come  to  sound  me,  to  find  out  if  Dolgoff  had  not 
spoken  to  me  regarding  him.  But  I  kept  close 
guard  upon  myself  and  evaded  all  his  dexterous 
questions. 

He  had  risen  to  leave,  when  he  remarked  very 
casually:  "  By  the  bye,  I  met  an  old  friend  recently 
that  I  never  expected  to  see  in  this  country.  I  hap- 
pened to  speak  of  him  to  Dolgoff  last  night,  and  he 
said  you  knew  him,  too." 

"Who  is  he?"  I  asked  mechanically,  hardly  hav- 
ing heard  what  he  said,  for  within  I  was  a  chaos  of 
fear  and  sickening  suspicion. 

"I  think  you  knew  him  in  Kieff — Bialnick's  his 
name." 

"What!"  I  cried.  And  suspicion  and  fear  for 
the  time  left  me  and  I  had  but  one  thought — Katia  ! 

Gavniack' s  look  was  suddenly  fastened  upon  me. 
372 


The  World  is  Quite  Small,  After  All          373 

"It  seems  you  are  very  much  interested  in  this 
aristocratic  fugitive. ' ' 

I  controlled  myself  with  a  great  effort.  "  I  was 
very  much  interested  in  him  before  the  massacre 
of  the  Jews  in  '81.  He  showed  himself  a  great 
friend  of  the  Jews,  and  he  supported  the  Jewish 
emancipation  movement  with  all  his  might." 

A  peculiar  smile  played  about  Gavniack's  lips. 
"I  knew  him  long  before  that,"  he  rejoined,  and 
with  an  ironical  chuckle  he  added:  "He  was  no 
friend  of  the  Jews  then — far  from  it." 

"I  think  I'll  look  him  up,"  I  said,  assuming  an 
air  of  indifference.  "Where's  he  living?" 

Gavniack  gave  me  Judge  Bialnick's  address.  He 
continued  to  chat  for  a  few  minutes,  but  I  had  no 
interest  in  his  talk — my  mind  was  with  Katia.  I 
had  almost  forgotten  his  presence,  when  I  became 
aware  that  he  had  picked  up  from  the  table  the 
Hebrew  Bible  my  mother  had  given  me  on  her 
death-bed. 

"  I  see  you  are  still  a  good  Jew,"  he  said  jovially. 

"The  book  is  an  heirloom,"  I  answered. 

"  H'm  !  The  book  does  look  rather  old. ' '  And  so 
saying  he  began  to  turn  the  leaves  to  the  first  part 
of  the  book,  where  our  family  history  was  written. 

My  heart  began  to  beat  violently — I  could  feel  it 
throb  in  my  ears,  in  my  throat;  my  brain  was 
whirling.  I  turned  and  tottered  to  the  window, 
and  stood  there  unnerved,  trembling,  all  in  a  daze. 
I  vaguely  heard  some  words  in  a  strange,  hoarse 


374  The  Fugitive 

voice ;  I  saw,  as  if  through  a  mist,  a  pair  of  ghastly 
eyes  staring  in  my  direction ;  then  the  door  clicked. 
When  I  turned  about  he  had  gone. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
"THE  VOICE  OF  MY  BELOVED" 

I  SPENT  a  long,  sleepless  night.  Strange  thoughts 
haunted  my  brain.  As  soon  as  I  would  begin  to 
think  of  Katia  horrible  incidents  would  crowd  my 
mind.  "  Perhaps  it  was  Providence  that  separated 
me  from  the  daughter  of  my  father's  slayer  ?  Perhaps 
it  was  Providence  that  put  us  asunder  because  I 
am  a  Jew  and  she  a  Christian?"  I  brooded  super- 
stitiously.  But  instantly  my  deep  love  for  Katia 
filled  me  with  different  thoughts.  "What  do  the 
terms  Christian  and  Jew  denote,  after  all  ?  I  love 
nature;  I  love  art;  I  love  humanity.  What  can 
any  religion  teach  me  in  addition  to  these  principles  ? 
Must  I  profess  a  certain  creed  when  these  three 
passions  embrace  all  creeds  and  something  more — 
unsophisticated  brotherhood?  A  philosopher  is  a 
philosopher — neither  Jew  nor  Christian;  or  rather  he 
is  both.  To  belong  to  a  certain  creed  is  to  confine 
philosophy  in  narrow  compass.  To  abjure  creed 
and  believe  in  nature,  art,  humanity  is  to  extend 
philosophy  to  its  utmost  capacity.  Creeds  are  the 
ladders  by  which  mankind  ascends  to  philosophy 
—to  truth.  The  top  once  reached,  the  ladder  may 
be  kicked  away  as  a  thing  past  usefulness."  "  But 

375 


376  The  Fugitive 

you  are  a  child  of  martyrs,"  a  weird-like  voice 
whispered  to  me.  Oh,  martyrdom !  It  is  only  a 
barbaric  term  for  heroism;  the  civilised  idea  of 
heroism  is  to  follow  the  stream,  not  swim  against  it. 
Broader  minds  comprise  martyrdom  in  fanaticism. 
To  expose  oneself  to  suffering  and  torture  for  an 
idea  may  be  regarded  by  some  a  virtue,  but  there 
are  worthier  things  in  life  on  which  to  spend  virtue. 
Virtue  is  scarce  nowadays,  and  we  must  use  it 
sparingly." 

Thus  I  mused  till  the  cheerful  morning  sun  dis- 
persed the  misty  shroud  that  hovered  about  me. 
I  then  put  on  my  best  clothes  and  repaired  to  Judge 
Bialnick,  whose  address  Gavniack  had  given  me. 
I  found  it  to  be  a  fashionable  residence  on  Madison 
Avenue. 

I  rang  the  bell  and  a  servant  appeared  almost 
instantly. 

"Is  Judge  Bialnick  in?"  I  asked. 

"Yes.    Who  shall  I  say  wants  to  see  him?" 

"A  gentleman  from  Kieff,"  I  replied  evasively. 

The  servant  disappeared,  and  a  moment  later 
returned  and  showed  me  into  a  small  library.  In 
a 'large  leather  arm-chair  sat  a  feeble-looking,  white- 
haired  man,  with  a  bloodless  face.  He  rose  to 
greet  me,  but  he  evidently  did  not  recognise  me. 
As  I  came  close  to  him,  however,  he  stretched  out 
both  his  hands,  and  a  flood  of  cheer  seemed  to 
spread  over  his  pallid  countenance. 

"Russakoff!"  he  cried. 


"The  Voice  of  My  Beloved"  377 

"Where  have  you  kept  yourself?"  I  asked  when 
the  first  greeting  was  over,  anxious  for  some  refer- 
ence to  Katia.  "I  searched  with  torches  through 
every  country  in  Europe  and  could  not  find  a  trace 
of  you." 

"We  stayed  in  Switzerland  and  France  most  of 
the  time,"  he  answered  in  a  very  weak  voice,  "but 
I  finally  decided  to  end  my  days  in  this  great  land 
of  freedom." 

"And  Katia?"  I  asked  with  a  throbbing  heart. 

"What  an  old  rascal  I  am  to  keep  you  from 
Katia !"  he  exclaimed,  smiling  broadly. 

He  summoned  a  servant.  "Tell  Katia  a  gentle- 
man from  Kieff  is  here." 

Then  turning  to  me,  he  said  with  the  joy  of  a 
child  playing  a  prank  upon  another:  "You  hide 
yourself  behind  that  curtain.  Let  me  break  the 
news  to  her." 

I  secreted  myself,  as  he  desired,  behind  a  curtain 
that  hung  in  the  doorway  connecting  the  library 
with  another  room,  and  awaited  her  coming  with 
my  eyes  at  the  curtain's  edge. 

Presently  she  appeared.  She  was  dressed  all  in 
black.  As  I  gazed  at  her  through  eyes  blinded  with 
warm  tears  I  thought  she  looked  like  a  queen  in 
exile.  She  was  the  same  Katia — a  trifle  thinner, 
a  trifle  paler,  but  even  more  sweetly  beautiful  than 
when  fate  had  swept  us  apart  several  years  before. 

"A  gentleman  from  Kieff  was  here  a  while  ago," 
the  Judge  said  in  answer  to  her  questioning  glance 


378  The  Fugitive 

about  the  room.  "  He  will  be  back  soon.  Guess 
who  he  is!" 

She  shook  her  head  and,  smiling  sadly,  answered: 
"  How  can  I  guess,  father?  We  had  so  many  friends 
in  Kieff." 

"The  gentleman,"  the  old  man  continued  play- 
fully, "told  me  he  had  met  Doctor  Russakoff — he  is 
a  doctor  now." 

I  clenched  the  curtain  feverishly.  She  started, 
trembled,  and  her  colour  began  to  come  and  go. 

"A — what — a—     "  she  quavered. 

"Come,  my  soul."  He  slipped  his  arm  about 
her  and  drew  her  down  upon  the  arm  of  his  chair. 
"What  would  you  give  if  I  should  bring  him  here — 
at  once?"  he  asked  softly,  moving  his  weak  eyes 
in  the  direction  of  my  concealment. 

Katia  caught  her  father  around  the  neck  and 
leaned  her  face  against  his  cheek.  "Oh,  father, 
don't  trifle  with  me !  Do  you  know  any- 
thing?" 

"Would  it  not  be  great,"  he  continued,  "if,  as 
in  Arabian  tales,  I  could  produce  him  here  by  the 
mere  mentioning  of  his  name?  Let  me  raise  my 
wand  and " 

I  could  not  stand  this  fairy-tale  nonsense  longer, 
and  throwing  the  curtain  aside  I  strode  to  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

"Katia!"  I  cried. 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  turned  about.  Judge 
Bialnick  slipped  out  of  the  room. 


"The  Voice  of  My  Beloved"  379 

"Katia  !"  I  cried  again,  the  longing  of  four  years 
in  my  voice. 

She  opened  her  arms  wide  to  me.  "  Israel ! 
Oh,  Israel !"  she  murmured,  as  I  clasped  her  to  my 
breast. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
THE  END  OP  Two  LIVES 

THE  following  few  weeks  Katia  and  I  were  the 
happiest  people  in  the  world.  My  college  work  was 
practically  finished,  so  I  was  free  to  be  with  her 
morning,  afternoon ;  and  evening,  and  her  presence 
made  me  forget  all  else. 

During  the  period  I  had  been  away  from  the 
tragic  life  of  the  East  Side  I  had  begun  to  appreciate 
the  spirit  of  this  country,  and  this  appreciation  soon 
ripened  to  that  love  and  admiration  which  surpass 
all  native  patriotism.  I  now  cherished  only  one 
ideal — to  settle  with  my  beloved  Katia  in  purely 
American  atmosphere.  After  a  great  deal  of  dis- 
cussion between  ourselves  and  a  long  consultation 
with  friends,  we  decided  to  locate  in  some  southern 
town  where  there  was  promise  of  my  building  up  a 
lucrative  practice.  And  with  this  purpose  in  view 
I  made  an  extensive  trip  through  the  South,  and 
discovered  just  the  place  of  our  desire. 

On  my  return  to  New  York  I  found  among  the 
letters  awaiting  me  the  following  note,  in  a  nervous, 
scrawling  hand: 

''Dear    Doctor  Russakoff:     I    am    sick    in    bed 
380 


The  End  of  Two  Lives  381 

at    B Hospital.     I   am    miserable,    wretched, 

and  suffer  beyond  endurance.  I  am  afraid  this 
will  be  my  end.  Come  as  soon  as  you  get  this  note. 
I  must  tell  you  something  very  serious. 

"GAVNIACK." 

The  letter  was  dated  several  days  before.  I 
wondered  what  might  have  happened  to  him  since 
then,  and  without  first  going  to  see  my  beloved 

Katia  I  hastened  to  B Hospital.  There  I  was 

told  that  he  had  attempted  to  take  his  life,  and  before 
he  recovered  from  his  illness  he  fell  sick  with  typhoid 
fever  complicated  by  pneumonia,  and  that  there 
was  a  slim  chance  of  his  lasting  through  the  night. 

I  was  ushered  to  a  private  room  and  given  a 
chair  beside  Gavniack's  bed.  He  lay  stretched  out 
on  his  back,  his  mouth  open,  breathing  heavily. 
The  low-burning  light  in  the  room  added  grimness 
to  the  patient's  emaciated  face  and  dark-bluish 
arteries  on  his  forehead. 

There  is  such  a  close  affinity  between  human 
beings  that,  no  matter  how  much  we  hate  one  in 
good  health,  our  sympathies  are  aroused  on  finding 
him  on  his  death-bed.  I  had  loathed  this  man, 
but  now,  at  sight  of  his  slipping  into  eternity,  I  was 
moved  to  compassion. 

He  began  to  roll  about  restlessly  and  to  talk 
incoherently.  Suddenly  he  opened  his  eyes  and 
fixed  them  glaringly  upon  me,  and  he  gave  utter- 
ance to  his  raving  in  a  flesh-creeping  voice:  "Oh, 
Martha  !  Martha  !  Martha  !  look  at  me — look — I  did 


382  The  Fugitive 

not  murder  your  father — did  you  not  love  me  ? — ah, 
that  Dolgoff — he  told  you  everything — carried  you 
away — oh,  Dolgoff — my  money — everything — but 
give  me  back — Martha — look  at  her  eyes,  her 
milky  cheeks,  her — Martha — Mar " 

He  raved  and  talked  in  frightful  tones  that  made 
me  stir  in  my  seat.  Then  he  broke  off  and  his 
raving  took  another  turn:  " I  felt  it  all  the  time — 
the  very  image  of  mother — [some  indistinct  bab- 
bling here].  Don't,  Israel — don't  marry 'her — there 
hangs  our  father — look  how  he  stares  at  us — those 
eyes  drive  me  crazy — I  killed  him — Bialnick  did  it 
— Bialnick — oh,  take  that  cross  away — ah,  that 
cross,  that — cross — Israel — throw  away  that  cross — 
father  is  nailed  to  it — ah,  that  cross — that  cro " 

His  words  became  indistinct  again,  then  ceased. 
His  breath  was  now  coming  with  difficulty.  I  was 
damp  with  cold  sweat;  my  brain  was  whirling  with 
the  tragedies  of  my  life. 

Half  an  hour  later  he  opened  his  eyes.  There 
was  consciousness  in  them.  A  tremor  passed 
through  his  body,  and  with  an  effort  he  moved 
one  emaciated  hand  over  the  counterpane  toward  me. 

"  Isroelke,"  he  murmured  feebly. 

"Joseph,"  I  answered,  taking  his  hand.  My 
eyes  began  to  overflow  with  hot  tears. 

That  was  his  only  lucid  moment.  The  next 
instant  his  hand  tightened  convulsively  upon  mine 
and  he  began  to  rave  again. 

"  Don't  you  see  father's  face  there — nailed  to  the 


The  End  of  Two  Lives  383 

cross  ?  The  Christians  did  it — they,  crucified  father — 
they'll  crucify  you— Bialnick  did  it— you'll  not 
marry  her— I  am  a  villain— I  fooled  the  whole 
world — everybody — everybody — but  I  am  a  Jew— 
you  are  a  Jew — once  a  Jew  always — a  Jew — don't 

marry  her He  struggled  up  on  one  elbow 

and  stared  wildly  in  front  of  him.  "  Look — look- 
father — mother — on  the  cross — Shma — Israel— 
adenoi — Elo — heinu — adenoichod-d-d —  -'  '* 

He  fell  back  in  my  arms,  gasping.  An  hour  later 
he  lay  motionless,  quiet — dead. 

It  was  a  little  before  daybreak  when  I  left  the 
hospital.  The  scene  I  had  just  witnessed  stupefied 
my  brain  for  a  while ;  then  recollections  of  the  remote 
past  began  to  come  back  to  my  mind  as  I  walked 
home,  thinking  and  breathing  deeply,  with  a  vague 
hope  of  waking  and  finding  that  I  had  only  dreamed. 
But  I  soon  realised  that  I  had  had  no  dream;  my 
brother's  cutting  words  still  rang  in  my  ears. 

I  opened  my  room  quietly;  I  feared  my  own 
footsteps.  A  silvery  glance  of  the  fading,  vanishing 
moon  fell  upon  my  desk.  There  lay  the  dog-eared 
Bible.  My  thoughts  again  travelled  to  my  brother's 
delirious  talk;  I  shuddered  at  his  suggestion. 
Gradually  my  mind  came  back  to  Katia,  and  the 
old  battle  of  creed  and  race  and  vengeance  raged  in 
my  breast.  "Why  did  fate  bring  us  together?" 
I  wondered  why  I  put  myself  this  question.  "  Don't 

*  Hear,  O  Israel !     God  is  our  Lord — God  is  one. 


384  The  Fugitive 

marry  her — don't,marry  her."  My  brother's  words 
passed  through  my  mind.  "The  blood  of  your 
father's  murderer  runs  in  her  veins,"  a  weird  voice 
seemed  to  whisper.  And  instantly  a  new  feeling 
was  sprouting  within  me.  That  feeling  or  affinity 
which  binds  the  Jew  to  his  race,  to  his  creed  when 
all  other  hopes  forsake  him,  was  waking  in  my  heart. 
"Once  a  Jew  always  a  Jew."  My  brother's  words 
again  haunted  me. 

I  arose  and  walked  across  the  room.  All  around 
was  dead  silence ;  only  at  intervals  the  clattering  of 
the  elevated  trains  was  heard,  and  then  silence 
again.  I  felt  weary,  and  the  burden  of  life  weighed 
heavily  upon  me.  In  a  moment  the  structure  of 
my  happiness  seemed  to  be  razed  to  the  ground  and 
buried  me  under  its  d&bris.  My  heart  was  embit- 
tered, wretched,  crushed. 

Then  I  noticed  on  the  floor  a  letter  which  had 
evidently  been  thrust  under  my  door  after  I  had 
left  for  the  hospital.  I  picked  it  up  with  a  fretful 
heart.  It  was  a  note  from  Katia.  She  said  that 
her  father  was  dying,  and  asked  me  to  come  as 
soon  as  I  reached  town.  And  forgetting  all  else, 
I  hurried  to  my  beloved. 

When  I  knocked  at  Judge  Bialnick's  apart- 
ment Katia  herself  opened  the  door.  " Bosje  moil 
papa  is  dying!"  she  cried,  and  fell  into  my 
arms. 

"What's  the  matter  with  him,  dearest?"  I 
asked. 


The  End  of  Two  Lives  385 

"His  heart.  It's  been  weak  for  years,  you 
know." 

"Has  he  been  sick  long?" 

"  He  was  quite  well  last  night.  But  a  man  came 
in  tc  see  papa  last  night.  Papa  knew  him  in  Kieff . 
He  left  a  letter  which  he  said  a  friend  in  a  hospital 
had  asked  him  to  deliver,  and  then  went  away.  I 
was  not  in  the  room  when  papa  read  the  letter, 
but  when  I  came  in  a  little  later  he  was  unconscious 
in  his  chair.  The  letter  was  from  a  man  who  says 
he's  your  brother.  Do  you  think  that  would  have 
affected  him  so?" 

I  shook  my  head.  I  saw  clearly  the  hand  that 
struck  this  blow. 

Katia  led  me  into  the  chamber  where  her  father 
lay  struggling  for  life.  The  attending  physician  rose 
to  leave.  As  he  was  going  out  he  whispered  to  me: 
"  His  minutes  are  numbered.  I  have  been  staying 
here  for  her  sake." 

A  glance  at  the  aged  patient  convinced  me  of  the 
truth  of  the  physician's  statement.  He  was  uncon- 
scious; his  long,  thin,  silvery  hair  was  scattered 
over  the  pillows ;  his  face  was  wan  and  calm ;  and  his 
breath  came  fast  and  short.  Katia  fell  on  her  knees 
at  his  bedside,  took  one  of  his  hands  in  both  hers, 
and  sobbed  brokenly.  I  took  a  seat  beside  the 
bed  opposite  Katia  and  gazed  fixedly  at  the  cold, 
wax-like  face. 

Shortly  after  daybreak  the  patient  opened  his  eyes 
and  turned  them  toward  me.  I  leaned  over  the 


386  The  Fugitive 

bed  and  felt  his  pulse.  His  eyes  opened,  closed, 
and  opened  again.  Something  like  a  shudder  passed 
over  his  wrinkled  countenance;  his  wrist  trembled 
in  my  hand.  He  glanced  from  me  to  Katia  and 
stirred  as  if  he  wished  to  rise  and  utter  something. 
A  flush  of  scarlet  tinged  his  bloodless  cheeks  as  he 
glanced  at  me.  He  stirred  again.  His  arm 
trembled,  his  whole  body  quivered,  a  gleam  like 
that  of  sunshine  lightened  his  deadly  looking  eyes. 
With  a  sudden  effort,  half  rising,  he  clasped  my 
hand,  and  placing  it  upon  Katia's  he  gasped: 
"  Israel — forgive  !" 

Our  hands  remained  clasped  together  long  after 
he  had  drawn  his  last  breath.  Katia,  with  her 
face  down,  did  not  seem  to  realise  that  the  end 
had  come.  I  sat  motionless,  fearing  to  arouse  her. 
Suddenly  something  like  an  electric  shock  passed 
through  my  mind.  It  only  lasted  a  few  seconds, 
but  in  that  brief  space  of  time  my  whole  life  flitted 
through  my  mind.  The  tragedy  of  the  two  lives 
that  had  passed  away  on  this  night  added  colour 
to  my  mystic  imagination.  The  last  words  of  my 
brother  rang  clamorously  in  my  ears;  the  terrible 
episodes  of  my  life  stood  out  vividly  before  my 
mind's  eye ;  many  fragments  of  recollections  came  in 
a  common  flood — the  lives  of  Bialnick  and  Joseph 
stood  before  me  side  by  side — and  in  them  I  saw  the 
weakness,  the  mortality,  the  littleness  of  man.  The 
errors  of  these  men  seemed  to  me  like  links  of  a  great 


The  End  of  Two  Lives  387 

chain — the  endless  chain  of  faith,  of  nature,  of  God. 
All  history  unrolled  itself  before  me,  and  it,  too,  was 
a  part  of  that  great  chain.  Then  like  a  flash  of 
lightning  a  revelation  flashed  upon  me — the  revela- 
tion of  my  people,  the  revelation  of  my  father  and 
of  his  father,  and  the  revelation  of  my  own 
life. 

This  revelation  came  to  me  almost  as  a  dream, 
as  a  vision ;  it  interpreted  to  me  the  mystery  of  my 
people.  Side  by  side  the  life  of  the  Crucified  and 
the  life  of  my  race  among  nations  and  the  life  of  my 
father  and  my  own  strange  life — in  a  vision  they 
all  presented  themselves  before  me.  And  this 
vision,  this  revelation,  showed  me  the  symbolism 
of  my  race,  the  symbolism  of  the  Christ.  It  showed 
me  that  the  Crucified  was  the  symbol  of  His  people 
as  my  father  was  of  his  generation  and  as  I  am  of 
mine.  It  showed  me  that  not  the  Pilgrims,  not 
the  Crusaders,  not  the  followers  of  Him  whom  they 
called  Saviour — none  but  the  fugitive  race  are  the 
eternal  bearers  of  the  cross. 

The  next  instant,  when  this  mystic  vision  had 
vanished,  I  became  conscious  of  the  clasp  of  Katia's 
hand,  I  beheld  her  pure  soul  in  the  innocent  look 
of  her  luminous  eyes,  and  again  the  past  flashed 
through  my  mind  with  lightning  rapidity.  But  the 
past  now  revealed  to  me  a  different  symbol — the 
symbolism  of  the  innocent  blood — the  symbolism 
of  Katia's  life  and  mine. 

"Katia,"    I    whispered   softly,    glancing   at   the 


388  The  Fugitive 

corpse  before  us,  "let  the  dead  past  bury  the  dead. 
We  are  the  innocent  blood." 

She  gazed  at  me  meaninglessly ;  she  knew  nothing 
of  the  tragedy  of  her  father's  life — she  was  innocent. 


CHAPTER  XV 
THE   LAST   GLIMPSE 

BEFORE  turning  over  the  last  leaf  of  my  history 
I  read  over  this  narrative,  and  I  have  been  struck 
with  its  brokenness,  its  lack  of  order,  its  coinci- 
dences. At  first  I  thought  this  was  a  fault  in  my 
narrative,  but  after  a  little  scrutiny  I  know  it  is  a 
fault  in  life;  for  life  is  not  a  logical  procession  of 
events  as  novelists  present  it.  It  is  sometimes 
broken,  incoherent,  and  at  other  times  chance 
makes  events  fit,  coincide.  In  real  life  people  come 
and  go;  acquaintances  meet  and  separate;  the 
friends  of  to-day  are  not  seen  to-morrow.  In  this 
record  of  my  experiences  friends  have  appeared  only 
to  disappear.  Such  is  life. 

Perhaps  during  their  brief  stay  in  these  pages 
my  friends  have  aroused  enough  interest  to  warrant 
at  least  a  few  words  concerning  their  after  life.  So, 
at  least,  I  shall  presume. 

My  friends,  like  myself,  fugitives  from  the  land  of 
bondage,  now  enjoy  the  liberty  of  our  glorious 
country;  they,  too,  have  thriven  in  the  great  land 
of  freedom.  In  place  of  the  "sweat-shop"  has 
arisen  the  prosperous  clothing  factory  of  Levando 
&  Son,  who  are  of  the  most  prominent  in  one  of  the 

389 


39°  The  Fugitive 

western  States.  The  father's  hair  has  turned  gray, 
but  there  is  still  the  twinkle  of  hopeful  youth  in  his 
bluish  eyes;  and  even  Gittele  smiles  when  her  hus- 
band sings  the  praises  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes. 
Daniel  has  become  a  well-known  lawyer,  and  chiefly 
through  him  Mark  Fetter  was  forced  into  bank- 
ruptcy a  few  years  ago.  Dolgoff  married  Martha, 
and  this  change  in  his  life  has  developed  a  certain 
amount  of  stability  in  his  character;  he  is  now  at 
the  head  of  a  branch  of  a  life  insurance  company 
in  Chicago.  As  for  Ephraim  Razovski,  if  you  are 
a  reader  of  popular  magazines  you  have  undoubtedly 
noticed  many  articles  and  short  stories  bearing  his 
name — all  characteristic  of  his  restless,  fiery  spirit. 
And  Malke — she  is  a  happy  mother  in  a  large  and 
happy  family,  and  her  last  child  was  named  Nathan, 
after  her  father,  who  had  died  a  year  before. 

Now  for  a  few  last  words  about  myself.  Since 
my  life  has  been  united  with  that  of  my  beloved 
Katia  nothing  has  occurred  to  mar  our  happy 
existence.  I  have  been  successful  in  my  profes- 
sion, and  also  in  gaining  the  respect  and  friend- 
ship of  my  good  American  neighbours.  We  live 
in  harmony  with  God  and  man. 

I  still  have  my  literary  aspirations,  and  still 
frequently  scribble  verses,  which  my  -sweet  Katia 
values  as  highly  as  those  of  Pushkin  and  of  Lermon- 
toff.  But  she  is  a  biased  critic;  and  to  judge  from 
public  recognition  my  efforts  have  been  attended 
with  only  meager  success. 


The  Last  Glimpse  391 

Not  infrequently,  however,  a  bit  of  cloud  darkens 
the  sky  of  my  happiness.  Recollections  of  the 
bitter  past  recur  to  my  mind;  the  groans  of  my 
people  from  tyrannical  Russia,  from  Morocco,  from 
France,  occasionally  reach  my  ears.  Then  I  suffer 
with  the  down-trodden  race  as  if  I  still  lived  among 
them  in  some  barricaded  Ghetto. 

The  other  day  my  eldest  son,  whose  seventh 
birthday  we  soon  hope  to  celebrate,  came  crying 
into  the  house  because  the  boy  of  a  neighbour 
called  him  Jew.  Katia  adjusted  his  cap  and 
said:  "Hush!  sweetheart.  You  must  not  quarrel 
with  Robert."  "But  he  calls  me  Jew  even  if  I 
don't  quarrel  with  him,"  the  innocent  little  martyr 
justified  himself. 

When  the  child  was  out  of  the  room  Katia  turned 
to  me  with  a  sorrowful  look.  As  our  eyes  met,  one 
common  thought  flitted  through  our  brains.  I 
bowed  my  head  in  pain.  Pretending  not  to  be 
hurt  by  the  injustice  our  boy  had  suffered,  she 
came  up  to  me  and,  throwing  her  arm  around  me, 
whispered  in  a  very  low,  consoling  tone:  "Israel, 
what  troubles  you?" 

I  pressed  her  to  my  breast,  and  pushing  back  her 
luxuriant  hair  from  her  forehead  I  impressed  a 
kiss  upon  her  brow  and  answered:  "The  cross,  my 
love — the  cross  I  bear  weighs  heavily  upon  me." 

She  divined  my  thought,  and  with  tears  gathering 
in  her  beautiful  eyes  locked  my  neck  in  a  tight 


39 2  The  Fugitive 

embrace,  and  putting  her  cheek  against  mine 
murmured:  "Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know 
not  what  they  do." 


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